Before There Was Darkness
by LongLashes1
Summary: What do we really know about Jimmy Dunbar? His life before the bank, before the blindness, is a blank canvas, up to our own imaginations to complete. This is my attempt to bring his past to life, to understand the man he was Before There Was Darkness.
1. Chapter 1

1**Before There Was Darkness **

**Part One**

There wasn't much that had the ability to reach out and permeate Jim's soul, but the tone of a saxophone, caressed by the capable hands of a musician who knew exactly how to milk every haunting timbre out of the instrument, was one thing that could. The silky smoothness of certain notes, the brashness and rasp of others, emitted with just the right emphasis, could touch that place so deep within him. Walking alone on the rain soaked pavement, with the subdued echoes of a city preparing for sleep passing him by, that sound held him firmly in its grasp. He ordered Hank to stop and turned to face the source of the music.

He knew it was late; his first invitation for a boy's night out with Marty and Tom, and, considering the tensions of the past few days with Karen, and at home, he thought he deserved this one. Though he had apparently pressed all the wrong buttons and pushed her to the brink of exasperation, he knew Christie would still be worried. He hadn't ventured out on his own like this in months, fifteen to be exact.

But, he couldn't bring himself to tear away from the loneliness of the music resonating from somewhere on the other side of the street. Moon River seemed, to him, an odd choice for a solitary sax; he had only heard the song done on the sax once before; then, it had been more subtle, the notes warmer, jazzier, not like this; this was moving, forlorn, a perfect coupling of instrument and artist. Whoever this was, he was an artist; he knew exactly how to wrench every ounce of sadness from that sax.

To Jim, that was the beauty of music – you didn't have to be able to see anything to be able to feel it or to appreciate it. God, he loved music, all kinds of music; he always had. When he was growing up, he would lie in bed, with his eyes closed, and just let the music envelope him in the darkness. It was distracting, providing him with a much-needed diversion from the harshness of the streets of Red Hook or the angry invasions of his drunken father. Even now, at the end of a long day or after a particularly gruesome crime, he could still escape and lose himself in that soothing world with just the turn of a dial and the sound of smooth jazz calming his soul.

The basketball game, projected on the big screen at the bar, had been lost in translation; when you couldn't see what was happening on the screen in front of you, there was really nothing to cheer for – you didn't know who had the ball or what was happening until the crowd reacted. Not like baseball – that you could listen to on the radio and understand exactly what was going on – and he still did, on occasion. But, basketball was different; if he was being truthful, the whole vibe of the bar this evening had been different and he found himself, perhaps for the first time in his life, no longer comfortable in that environment.

Not necessarily because of the blindness, although there was no doubt that it had certainly added to the level of discomfort; more so because he was, again, at a bar and it was, again, a boy's night out. It had been on one such occasion that he met Anne Donnelly, a fellow police officer, and the woman who now stood firmly planted between him and marital fidelity. If it hadn't been for a few too many beers, or a few too many laughs and a definite breach of his better judgment, his marriage might still be standing on solid ground and his newly found insecurities wouldn't have had anywhere to take root.

But, before the events of the past year, before he had been so sharply rocketed back to earth and this new reality, he had been a player with absolutely nothing to prove. Not when there was someone like Christie already waiting for him at home.

It's ironic – it had taken a bullet to make him realize that he was one of the lucky ones; he had the beautiful wife, the beautiful home and a job he loved, a job that really, at least in his own mind, defined who he was. That bullet had changed everything. He had had to fight like hell to get it all back again. A year of recovery and rehab and a nasty, public struggle with the NYPD and he was finally back on the job. Though they had urged him to stay in-house, in a support role, and another minor struggle had ensued, he was, once again, partnered up and, it appeared, finally on his way to finding a zone of contentment with that.

His marriage, on the other hand, was not yet at that point. A year after that bullet, the one thing that had been such a constant in his life, in spite of his prior transgressions, was still on shaky ground. Plain and simple, he had cheated on his wife and he didn't know how or if he was ever going to be able to mend that broken fence.

God love her. She had stayed by his side, 24/7, through the worst of all of it, through the nights of delirium, the days of self-pity, even the darkest times when all he really wanted to do was die, to let himself just slowly and mercifully slip forever into the void that had transcended his being. She wouldn't let him go; she wouldn't let him quit. She was the one thing he could cling to during those days of hell; the steady, soothing voice that somehow managed to keep him sane and focused and believing again that his life was still worth living; that he was worth every ounce of effort it was going to take.

Thankfully, in his mind, he could still picture her; her stunning gray blue eyes, the quickness of her perfect smile, the way her nose wrinkled just so when she laughed at one of his stupid jokes. It had been so easy to lose himself in those eyes, eyes that he would never have an opportunity to gaze into again. He had always been able to read her mood by what was reflected there, the warmth of the gray or the steeliness of the blue; that was now gone to him forever too.

As much as he hated to admit it, he was scared; scared that she would leave, scared that he might actually find himself relegated to a life without her. That was his biggest fear. Having to face the possibility that she would tire of him, grow weary of having to live this new life. God knows there were days when he couldn't fathom how much more he could take, how he was going to be able to force himself to get up in the morning and keep moving. He had often wondered if he felt like this, how was she coping with the sudden turn of events? If she didn't find him so easy to live with before, what must it be like for her now?

When he had finally come back to life, and spent days railing against the abyss that seemed to be holding him down and suffocating him, she was right there, always right there. He didn't know at the time that she was already acutely aware of what he had done, of where he had been on all those nights when he was just going out with the boys. Yet, even after all of that, after the hardships of the last year, after being forced to make adjustments she couldn't possibly have been prepared for, here she was; still by his side. As much as he wanted to believe it was because of her love for him, her ability to forgive him, her belief in her own marriage vows, the nagging little voice at the back of his consciousness had, on more than one occasion, convinced him that it was more out of pity.

Standing here, alone on the street, still entranced by the sounds emanating from that sax, he was reminded of what it had been like before all of this, before there was an Anne, or a bullet, or any of this uncertainty. He was reminded of what it was like when life was normal, what life had been before there was darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

1**BEFORE THERE WAS DARKNESS by LongLashes1 **

**PART TWO**

It didn't take Jim long to realize that nothing could have possibly prepared him for the sights and sounds of war. He had always prided himself on the measure of toughness he seemed to possess; he had no doubt going in that he was strong enough and had been exposed to enough growing up on the streets of Red Hook, that there couldn't be much he would encounter on this short tour of duty that would even remotely affect his sense of well-being.

But, four days on the front lines of combat and a subsequent transfer to "clean-up" duty guaranteed that he witnessed, first hand, the absolute worst of what man could do. Even after his tour was over and he was back state side again, leaving the heat of battle and the smell of death half a world away, he was not immune to the shock of those images. Not sure what to do with it all, he did as he had always done, and buried it deep inside, along with the thousand other painful memories he hoped would never surface again.

Growing up in Red Hook had taught him a thing or two about survival. As if not enough to negotiate the mean streets, day in and day out, he found himself in the unenviable position of having to apply those same survival instincts at home. It wasn't that he grew up hard. It was just that in the Dunbar house, there was an eternal battle raging over the bottle, a battle that, for all intent and purposes, was heading to a terrible conclusion.

The better part of his teen-age years had been spent shielding his younger brothers from the hurt of that environment. Jim could handle it; but Ricky, three years his junior, and Tom, just a year behind, they needed to be protected from as much of it as possible. Jim took that burden upon his broad shoulders; he was keeper, confidant and guardian.

There were far too many recollections of holding the two of them, tightly against his chest, trying to reassure them that this would all be gone, someday. The closed bedroom door was never barrier enough to escape the reality of their world; the pleading ministrations of their mother, struggling to control the demons that were slowly eating away at the semblance of the man they had once lovingly called Daddy.

It's not that love didn't exist in their house. It did. It was there in her gentle touch, the way she nutured and encouraged. On days when it looked like he might finally be crawling his way back to sobriety, there was love from their Daddy too. Those were the good days, the days when they were a family, the days when it seemed that life might almost be right again. There just never seemed to be enough of those days.

Jimmy had always admired the fact that his mother could be so resilient, able to deal with the curse of booze and still have something left to give to her sons. He didn't know where she found the will or the courage to hold it all together, but she did. He was old enough to understand that she did it because she had to; there was no one else; there would never be anyone else.

It had been a tumultuous upbringing at best, but the Dunbar boys knew, because she made sure they knew, that in a better time, in a better place, they had been the apples of their Daddy's eye. She also made certain that they understood it wasn't anything they had done, or anything she had done, that had driven their father to seek solace in a bottle. It was just something, a sickness of sorts, that grew inside, and there was nothing they could do for him, nothing anyone could do for him until he decided it was time to do something for himself.

That was the bane of Jim's existence. He dedicated himself to the things he knew would someday lift him out of this hole; he was, as his teachers would describe him, gifted and determined, though, perhaps, because of his acquired penchant for privacy, no one really understood the underlying reason for that determination. Jim did; he recognized that if he worked hard enough, and studied hard enough, this reality would be his only as long as it had to be, only as long as he was too young to have any say in the matter.

He swore that once he was able to fend for himself, it would never be his life again. He was resolute in his efforts to secure a better future, in spite of the barriers that existed simply because he had grown up in a lower-class home in a hard section of the city. Dreams, he discovered, were wonderful things; he could lose himself in thought, quiet contemplation about where he would go and what he might do when he was able to leave this world behind.

His father finally took that last drink when Jim was just 17. Although he allowed himself a period of mourning for the man he would never really know, for the family left behind, for the days when life was good, as good as it could get growing up in Red Hook with a drunk for a father, he pushed all of that down too, down to a place that he hoped would keep it suppressed forever. And he moved on.

Being a New York City cop was one of the first things Jim could honestly say made him happy. It fulfilled him and defined him as nothing else in his life had been able to do. Except perhaps for the boxing.

As a teen, his introduction to boxing had served a two-fold purpose; first and foremost, once he began to show promise in the ring, no one seemed to mess with him anymore. He was a strapping, good-looking youth, broad shouldered and sturdy, but because of the quiet, private nature of his personality, Jim found himself at odds with many of the elements of Red Hook. Boxing changed that. Getting into the ring, going round after round with an opponent was a freedom for him, a place to let go of and abandon all of those emotions he couldn't push down. He was a fighter; in more ways than one, he always had been, and, he was a damn good one too.

When he joined the NYPD, though, it was as if life had finally opened up and found him; or, in retrospect, perhaps it was more that he had finally opened up and found life. He had the mind for police work; he had always been overly analytical anyway, and was fortunate enough to be gifted with an inane ability to piece things together, especially on those occasions when vital pieces were missing. God knows, he had the stomach for it; after the sights and sounds of war, there wasn't much that shocked him anymore; there certainly wasn't anything that he hadn't seen before on a much grander scale.

He looked forward to getting out of the bed in the morning, in anxious anticipation of what the new day would bring. It wasn't always exciting work; he witnessed his fair share of domestic disturbances, petty larcenies, stolen cars, drunk and disorderlies, and a handful of poor bastards who had finally had enough of life. It never mattered to him what the call was or how mundane the assignment, the satisfaction of a job well done left him feeling complete. He was at home on the beat, patrolling the neighborhoods of his precinct. He was, in a word, content.

"I'm a cop," he'd say, and the simplicity of that statement, the truth behind it, the very certainty of it, made him smile. After years of wondering what the future might hold, he finally had the answer he'd been searching for and it satisfied him. A cop; that's what he was; that's who he was; a cop.


	3. Chapter 3

1**BEFORE THERE WAS DARKNESS LongLashes1**

**PART THREE**

Walter Clark was an NYPD veteran with twenty years on the job under his belt. His fellow officers would attest to the fact that he had definitely been around the block a time or two. Having traveled those circles for as many years as he had, the long-term exposure to the ins and outs of the job and having worked his way up through the ranks, Walter was an old hand at being a pretty good judge of people. This ability had served him well, not only during the long, often tedious and stressful hours of the criminal interview process, but also in identifying the best and worst in his fellow officers.

That was why when he came across a young beat cop by the name of James Dunbar, he knew instinctively that this one couldn't be a beat cop for long. There was something different about this Dunbar kid; he possessed an unmeasured commitment to his job and an unwavering view of what it meant to be a cop – it wasn't all spit and nails; it also demanded a degree of heart and compassion and pride; Dunbar certainly had all of that and more. Although Walter couldn't put his finger on it right away, it didn't take him long to recognize that what he saw in this young cop were all the same qualities that had carried him up through the ranks and ensured his position as an NYPD "long-timer."

He was also very aware that Dunbar wasn't the type of cop the brass would take notice of right away. It wouldn't matter that his reputation was golden; for all that he was, outgoing he wasn't. He was almost too reserved and too private to really stand out. It wasn't shyness; it was more a defense. While some of the traits would serve him well in his ability to do the job, others, like the reservedness, were exactly the traits that would more than likely guarantee he would be overlooked when it came time for promotion.

But this kid was too gifted to let languish in the role of beat cop or get lost in the shuffle somewhere along the way. Walter knew this one had too much promise, too much potential, and he wasn't about to let that promise pass unnoticed. He couldn't; the kid impressed him.

"Officer Dunbar." Jim didn't immediately recognize the voice echoing his name down the hallway; truth be told, he wasn't really interested in taking the time to find out who it was either. What he really wanted to do was just keep walking and pretend he hadn't heard a thing.

It had already been an extremely long day; one of those dog days of summer to be certain, where the heat and humidity hung over the city like a wet blanket and the air didn't move; it was hard to breathe. After 8 hours on the beat, all he wanted was to go home and grab a long, hot shower and a tall, cold beer.

That poor son-of-a-bitch had stood out on the 3rd floor ledge for most of the afternoon, in the unforgiving heat of the July sun, a pistol shoved tightly against his chin. After a few hours of trying to talk the guy down, the negotiators just didn't seem to be making any progress. Out on patrol duty and assigned to this location for crowd control, Jim could already sense that this one was technically over before it had even begun. As if to validate his read on the situation, the guy had done it, pulled the trigger right there, in front of the gathering audience on the sidewalk below. Jim had never actually witnessed anyone do it before; he hoped he'd never have to see it again.

He drew in a deep sigh and turned to see Walter Clark heading down the hall toward him. He hadn't really had much contact with Walter on a personal level; a hello, or how you doing, here and there if they happened to meet in the break room or the hallway; but those occasions were enough that he had long ago been informed that the name was "Walter, please. Not Detective Clark. That's for the bad guys and the Boss."

Jim had heard more than enough good things about this man to know that this was someone you would definitely want to have in your corner. Considering the thoughts that had been spinning around in his head recently, the timing couldn't have been more right.

"Sorry, Dunbar; didn't mean to hold you up. I've been trying to catch you for a couple of days now. Uh, if you had a minute or two to spare, I thought we could talk."

He flashed one quick smile Walter's way, but there was a weariness etched on his face. "Yeah, I was just heading home, but I got some time." He hesitated before asking, "Is this something I need to be worried about?"

Walter let out a short laugh and slapped Jim lightly on the back. "Nah, not at all. Let's find somewhere a little more private than this hallway." Once they were settled comfortably in the far corner of the break room, he leaned forward in his chair and looked Jim straight in the eye. "How's the job been treating you, kid?"

The question seemed to catch Jim a little off balance. "Good," he managed, "it's good. Hasn't been a terrific day but, you know, sometimes you get one like that."

"Yeah, I heard. Couldn't have been an easy thing to see. First time?"

"For that, yeah, it was, but, you know, I've seen worse; we all have." He paused for a minute and Walter could see that he was guarding himself, trying not letting too much out, a perfect example of that defense mechanism. His fingers nervously drummed the table top. "People, though, they amaze me sometimes, you know? It was so bleeding hot out there today but that didn't stop the crowd – they just kept coming. They weren't in a hurry to go anywhere either. I guess there's something to be said for morbid curiosity - never was my cup of tea."

"Understandable; not mine either. So, what is, Jim?"

"My cup of tea?" He shrugged his shoulders and caught his lower lip between his teeth. "I don't know, really. But, since you asked, I'll be honest with you. I've been having some thoughts lately. No reason, really….it's just I think I'm at the point where I want more." He was almost surprised that it had come out so easily, and to someone he still considered a stranger. He caught himself quickly, wanting to recover before sounding like he wasn't satisfied with things the way they were. "Don't get me wrong. I still love what I do; I love being a cop. It's just I think I'm capable of so much more than what I'm doing now."

Walter nodded his head in agreement. "Yeah, me too, Dunbar. I'd hate to see a good cop like you stagnate out there on the beat. That's why I wanted a chance to sit down and talk. I wanted to see where your head was. Sounds to me, though, that if I were to put the idea out there that I'd like you to think about moving up, take that next step and work on becoming a detective, you might be open to the concept?"

"Walter, you a mind-reader?" It amazed Jim that someone had found him that easy to read. He had spent so much of his life trying to build the impenetrable walls around himself, and here was someone who, in less than 10 minutes, had managed to break them down. "Yeah, I'd be interested."

Walter stood and moved behind Jim's chair. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he squeezed lightly and smiled. "I'm glad to hear it, kid. I think you're one of the best candidates I've seen in a long, long time and I honestly think you've got a real bright future ahead of you. Now, we've just got to make sure we get you moving on the right track."

The enthusiasm was reflected in Jim's voice, "So, where do we start?" But Walter thew him a curve ball - he didn't get the answer he was expecting.

"For now, how about a beer? It's been a long, hot day."

"I really am beginning to think you can read minds, Walter. Mine, anyway."

The older man laughed and put his hand in the middle of Jim's back, steering him toward the hall. "Come on, Dunbar. Let's get out of here. We've got a lot to talk about." With the security of that hand gently guiding him forward, the wheels of change were set in motion.


	4. Chapter 4

1**Before There Was Darkness **

Part Four

It was so easy to like Walter. There wasn't much about the man not to like or to admire; he was as he appeared to be, not a false bone anywhere in the short, stocky little body his spirit currently occupied. What you saw was exactly what you got, no frills, no pretenses, no lies. He possessed all of those characteristics that Jim would have wanted in his father; all of those things his father never was.

He wasn't sure why Walter had singled him out for this privilege, why he had been chosen above any of the other cops out on the beat, but he wasn't about to question the motives either. Whatever the reason, on a professional level Walter was providing him an opportunity to move up far sooner than he ever would have anticipated. More than that, though, were the personal rewards; the missing dimension in his life, that of mentor and friend, was now solidly occupied. The bond of friendship between the two men had grown swiftly and easily.

The occasional meetings in the hallway or the break room soon progressed to evenings and weekends with Walter and Dorothy, his wife of 33 years. She had taken an immediate shine to Jim and proclaimed him very soon after his first visit to be a member of the family. That exposure to the private side of Walter's life, the invitation to open up and feel comfortable, enabled more of the self-constructed walls to come tumbling down. As they continued to crumble, Walter discovered the reason behind the reserved, quiet nature of the kid and the long-ago established defense mechanisms. The strength he thought he recognized in Jim so early on was an obvious reflection of the burdens borne by shoulders that were far too young to have carried all that weight. From the beginning, Walter had sensed that this kid possessed an unmitigated dedication and determination; now he knew why.

Taking a break from the final review of some of the ground that would undoubtedly be covered on the exam, Wa lter and Jim retired to the shade and sanctity of the backyard, a cold brew in hand. The exam was only two short days away but Walter was confident that Jim was more than ready for it. He had been amazed at how truly gifted the kid was, how he was able to grasp so much and hold onto it, how his mind perceived things that wouldn't necessarily be obvious to others. Every indication pointed to the fact that Walter was right about this one; he was going to be a hell of a detective.

Walter raised his beer and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the cold bottle. He glanced over at Jim, reclining in the lounge chair to his right. "So, kid, you ready for this?"

Jim nodded his head in affirmation. "Yeah, I think I am. As ready as I'm ever going to be, anyway." He raised his bottle in salute, "I'd like to thank you, Walter."

"Thank me for what?" Walter asked, as his bottle clinked Jim's in return. "You could have done this on your own. All I did was give you a little bit of a head start. You would have gotten there eventually."

The look on Jim's face was full of skepticism. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Well, if you don't mind me saying so, that's one thing you need to work on, Jimmy. It's so obvious that you've got what it takes. Too bad you can't see that for yourself."

"You know, Walter, if anyone had told me a few years ago that I would be a cop, maybe by the end of the month, a detective with the NYPD, there's no way I would have believed them. Not with my background, not where I come from. I've had to fight so hard for everything up to now. "

"Can I say something?" Jim glanced over at his friend, knowing that whether he said yes or no he was going to hear it anyway. He took a long swig from the bottle.

"You can never let anything hold you back, Jimmy. It doesn't matter where you come from; what matters is where you're going. As hard as your past may have been, it's shaped all of the positive things about you."

"Yeah, you're right, I mean I know you're right.." He took another swig of beer and closed his eyes. "Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if things had been different. Would I be sitting here with you in your backyard, getting ready to take this test? Maybe." He shook his head, "Maybe not. And if my mother hadn't been as strong as she was, where would I be now? I honestly don't know what would have happened to us. My Dad sure as hell didn't care about any of it." He paused, "Or maybe he did and he just didn't have what it took to handle it. But one thing I learned from all of that is that's not me, that'll never be me."

"You are so far away from there now and you have to know you're not going back. That's a different lifetime and a different Jimmy Dunbar." He reached over and squeezed Jim's arm. "You should be proud of yourself, kid, of where you are. I know I am."

"Let's get the test over with first, okay? If I pass it, you can tell me again, deal?"

"Deal. But I bet it won't be long before I'll be calling you Detective Dunbar."

Jim liked the way that sounded but he didn't want to jump the gun. He still had that test to get through first and while Walter seemed confident in his abilities, he wasn't so sure it was going to be all that simple. The nerves that had been a precursor to every school test he'd ever taken had already begun to churn the butterflies in the pit of his stomach.

"Hey, Walter, remember one thing. You better not be calling me Detective Dunbar. That's for the bad guys and the Boss."

"You're right, kid. But it's got a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I do. Detective Dunbar. Who would have thought?"

The promotions ceremony was all pomp and circumstance and, as special as it should have been for him, it was also the last place Jim wanted to be. He had never felt comfortable enough to enjoy a place in the limelight, preferring, as he always had, to remain in the shadows, anonymous; the ability to blend in had served him well.

Today, though, there was no place to hide; the Auditorium of One Police Plaza in Manhattan was packed to the rafters with friends and family of the promoted officers. Everyone who was anyone with the City was in attendance, including the Mayor, the Deputy Mayor, the Commissioner, the Chief of Detectives and the press, so much press.

"There's no way I'm going to get through this alive," Jim thought. He lifted his eyes from the security of the floorboards and glanced quickly out at the audience, noting thankfully that Walter and Dottie had found seats relatively close to the front. That gave him something other than his own nerves to focus on.

Two hours later it was over. The Mayor had delivered a rousing address, the oath had been administered and the graduating class had been sworn in. He turned the brassy polished badge over and over in his hands, still at a loss to really appreciate that he'd done it; they'd done it, he and Walter. It hadn't really sunk in yet; the whole concept was still too fresh to be real, but the words on the front of that badge confirmed it; City of New York Police Department - Detective.

He went through the motions of shaking hands, more hands of more people than he could put a name to. In his heart he knew that this moment should be shared with his buddy. It belonged to Walter as much as it belonged to him. He had to find him, he was out there somewhere in the sea of suits and dresses that surrounded Jim; Walter found him first.

"Detective Dunbar, didn't I tell you? Congratulations." He grabbed Jim in a huge bear hug. For someone so much smaller in stature, he packed a lot strength in those arms of his. The smile on his face was a mile wide. "You did it, kid. How does it feel?"

"It's great, Walter. It feels great." While that seemed to sum up the emotion of the moment, the accomplishment celebrated by this day, Jim knew that what he was feeling was so much more than that. For the first time in his life, he felt the love of a true friend and it touched him.


	5. Chapter 5

1**Before There Was Darkness**

**Part Five**

He opened the door of the now dusty rental car and set foot on the solid ground of his grandparent's Indiana farm. It had been years since he had seen the place, and although the paint was peeling off the roof of the old red barn and the house had aged a little through the years, it looked pretty much like he remembered it.

Dark green shutters, green tin roof, white clapboard siding, and a huge front porch that wrapped around three sides of the two story farmhouse; it was as quaint as it was welcoming. Two wicker rocking chairs sat on either side of wooden demi-barrels overflowing with brightly hued fall flowers. The porch swing, where he had spent hours as a young child, nestled under the protective arm of his grandfather, listening to the tall tales that only a grandfather could spin, still hung to the left of the of the screen door; the screen door that always seemed to need some oil on its hinges. The old tire swing, hung years earlier from the bottom branch of the sprawling oak tree, swayed lazily in the mid-September breeze, waiting for the promise of laughter of great grandchildren that would someday fill the front yard.

He hadn't been here in twenty years, not since the summer he turned ten. That was the last good summer he could honestly remember, before the drinking had taken over their lives, before excuses had to be invented for why they couldn't come, before his childhood had taken that turn for the worse.

The screen door creaked, just as it always had, when he pulled it open; nice to see some things hadn't changed, he thought.

"Mom" he called out, "Anyone home?" The house was silent but the aroma of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies led him to the big country kitchen at the back of the old house.

"Hey, you baked. Are those for me?" He reached out to grab a still warm cookie from the plate in the middle of the butcher block table. She reached out and swatted his hand playfully with the oven mitt.

"First things first, Jimmy. Where's my hug?" He put the cookie back on the plate and pulled her in close, burying his chin in the hair piled neatly on top of her head. A petite woman of five feet and a bit, Carol Dunbar had to strain on tippy toes to reach the cheek of her eldest son. He had inherited his fathers height and build, but he had her sandy blond hair, clear blue eyes and the incredibly long lashes that had been the envy of every woman he'd ever met.

"I can't believe you're here, Jimmy. It's been too long."

"I know, Mom. Maybe I should have come a long time ago, but you know, the job. It's been hard to get away."

She pulled back and held him at arm's length, giving him the mom inspection from head to toe."You look good, Jimmy. You look happy."

"Yeah, I am happy Mom. Things finally seem to be working themselves out."

"And Walter, how's he? I'm going to have to meet that man next time I come to the city." She was very aware of the relationship that had been building between her son and this man. Through her bi-weekly phone calls over the past year she had come to understand the depth of the friendship between the two of them. "I'm not just going to have to meet him, she thought, I'm going to have to thank him."

"Oh, yeah, and when's that going to be? I know he and Dorothy would love to meet you too."

She did one of those shrugs with her shoulders, another thing that mother and son had in common. "Maybe in the spring; I haven't made any plans yet."

"Just let me know when you do. I'll be ready"

"Need some time to clean the place up Jimmy?" she teased.

"Come on, Mom. You know that's not me. Tom maybe," he said in reference to his youngest brother who could never seem to find a hanger or a closet, "but not me."

She laughed at him. "Always so serious Jimmy. You never did like to be teased." She gave him a motherly pat on the butt and turned to the stove to pull the last tray of cookies from the oven.

"Come on. Let's take a cup of coffee and a plate of those cookies to the front porch. Your grandparents should be home anytime now. They're excited to see you."

Once settled in the rocking chairs, a cup of hot coffee in one hand and one of her famous chocolate chip cookies in the other, she gazed at him with one of those looks; the "there's something I need to ask you" look.

"Go ahead, Mom. Whatever's on your mind, out with it."

"Detective work spill over into everything you do Jimmy?" she asked. " How did you know?"

"Just playing out a hunch...come on. It's that look. I haven't seen it in a long, long time." She had turned her head away from him; he took her tiny hand in his. "What is it?"

When she turned to him again, her eyes were misty and her voice cracked when she spoke. "I need to ask you something Jimmy." She hesitated for a minute. "Have you forgiven me?"

He couldn't keep the shock out of his voice. "Where the hell did that come from?"

"I don't know, Cricket. I've asked Ricky and Tom. But I never asked you; I think I was afraid of what you might say."

"God, Mom, I can't believe you would even think that." He stood up and paced the length of the front porch. When he had finished pacing, he stopped in front of her and leaned back against the porch rail. "There was never anything to forgive you for. Maybe I didn't understand it then, but I do now." His eyes were clear and his voice firm. "You did what you had to do and I love you for it, Mom. The only reason that we've come out whole is because of you. If there's anyone who needs to ask for forgiveness it's him. And it's too late for that now."

He knelt down in front of her and held her gaze with his. One tear rolled down her cheek. He brushed it away and smiled at her. That hundred watt smile, she thought, could change the world.

"So we're okay then?" she asked. "Because I was starting to think that maybe you weren't coming to visit because you needed to put some distance between us."

"Mom, please. Don't be silly."

"I'm not Jimmy, really. It's just that you haven't been to visit since I left the City. What else was I going to think?"

It had been exceptionally hard on him when she had packed up the last of her belongings and boarded the plane to Indiana. His brothers had moved on with their own lives, both choosing the quiet pace of small town America. Ricky was with the Muncie, Indiana Police Department and Tommy was in the final year of his Masters in Engineering at the University of Indiana. Once she was gone, there was nothing left of the Dunbars of Red Hook. He was alone, the only one who seemed able to embrace the quickened pulse of life in the big city.

For his mother, he knew the memories were probably better left as far behind as possible for a while; his childhood had been miserable enough; he couldn't even begin to fathom the pain that must have been in her heart all of those years. Even so, her leaving was the last thing he wanted; she needed it, he recognized that but he didn't want her to go, although he never told her. He had supported her decision, only because he knew that she needed time to heal, to find herself again, to feel the comfort of her roots. But never in his wildest dreams did he imagine that she had taken all of that guilt with her.

"That maybe I didn't come because I couldn't? I want you to know right now that it's good. We're all good. And you're the only reason for that."

The look on his face told her everything she needed to know; the truth in his voice told her everything she needed to hear. Her family was fine and while that should have been enough, it was enough, there was one more basis for the sudden lightness in her heart. Jimmy had come home.


	6. Chapter 6

1**Before There Was Darkness**

**Part Six**

The aroma of fresh brewed coffee and bacon and eggs roused him from a deep sleep. It was early, the clock on the bedside table registering just 5:45; the life of a farmer, whether forty-two or eighty-two, like his grandfather, started early, often before the sun was a glimmer in the pre-dawn sky and without regard for weekday or weekend.

There was a definite chill in the air, a foretelling that the warmer summer days were dwindling and fall, in all its glory, would be heralding its arrival before long. He snuggled a little deeper under the warmth of the feather comforter, refusing just yet to give in to the rumblings of his empty stomach.

As much as he had enjoyed the past few days, and a chance to revisit the place that still held the fondest memories of childhood, the simple farm life left him craving the sights and sounds of New York. He missed it, far more than he thought he would. This afternoon he would head back to that world, to what was, for him, familiar and comfortable.

He had been out in the fields all week, working along side his grandfather, mending broken fence posts and relationships along the way. It had taken some doing. They may have been family, but they were more like strangers; twenty years of distance a wide gap to bridge. Gone was the little tow-headed boy who couldn't wait to crawl up into his Grandpa's lap. It was obvious that there would be a period of awkwardness between the two; thankfully it was short-lived. The more time they spent together, working and relaxing, the more familiar they became with each other. By the end of the week it was as if time had stood still and waited for the two of them to catch up.

Throwing the comforter back, he swung his long legs over the side of the bed and cringed as his bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. That should have been enough to shake the last of the cobwebs from his head; anything leftover would disappear with that first cup of coffee. He pulled his NYPD sweat suit on to ward off the chill and headed downstairs.

He found his mom standing over the stove, humming something; he was never sure where she had found some of those tunes, but he loved to hear her sing. It was another one of the good memories he carried with him; it was also one thing he hadn't inherited from her; he couldn't sing to save his life Sneaking up from behind, he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her gently on the top of the head. "Morning, Mom."

She reciprocated by reaching back and circling him as far as her arms would allow. "Good morning, Jimmy. Sleep okay, son?"

"Yeah, I haven't had much trouble doing that since I got here." He had wondered that first night how that was going to work. He was so used to drifting off with the sounds of the city; sirens, traffic, noise. Here on the farm, it was crickets, leaves rustling in the evening breeze and the occasional hoot of the barn owls. But sleep had been no problem; he'd hit the hay, exhausted every night, and was easily lulled into slumber by those sounds.

"It's all that honest, hard work and that good, clean Indiana air." She handed him a mug of steaming coffee."

"Speaking of hard work, where's Grandpa?"

"Up and gone already. Probably almost done with the milking by now. He keeps himself busy during the day. I don't see him much."

"I noticed. It's been a busy week for all of us. Hard to believe it's over."

"Shhhh, please, I don't want to talk about that right now. I'm not ready to let you go, Jimmy." She gazed over at her eldest son, perched on the edge of the bar stool, his sandy blond hair spiking in all directions, two days of unshaven stubble on his face. His skin was lightly bronzed from the work of the week, making his blue eyes seem that much deeper. Thirty already, she thought. Where had the years gone? She took a mental photograph, something to tuck away for those occasions when she knew she'd miss him.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, "I promise you, Mom, I'll be back a lot sooner next time, okay?"

She smiled. "You better - I'm going to hold you to that." He knew she would. "What time's your flight?"

"Not til 3:00. We've got a little time."

Breakfast over, he left her to clean up the kitchen and retreated upstairs to gather up the last of his things and get himself ready. Once his suitcase was packed and stood waiting by the front door, he strolled out to the barn to find his grandfather.

"Grandpa? You here?" The sweet smell of fresh hay filled the barn.

"In here!" He found him, in the hay room, pitching the bales into neat little piles to be fed to the herd at the end of the day. "You heading out already, Bud?" His "buddy" of 20 years ago had grown up; the old man figured the nickname better grow up too.

"No, not yet. I got an hour or so before I have to hit the road. But I thought if you got busy, I might not find you later."

His grandfather stabbed the pitchfork into a bale and pulled a bandana from the pocket of his overalls. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"It's been a great week...maybe a little too fast but I've really enjoyed having some good help around here." Jim smiled and nodded in agreement. "You know, Bud, it was always hard to let you go back then. I think it's going to be even harder this time. We've missed out on so much...I feel like I'm just getting to know you again."

"Yeah, I know Grandpa, but I'd like to think we made up for a little of that this week. It's been really good to have a chance to spend time with you again."

The old man looked over at his grandson, so tall, so grown up, such a fine young man. "Jimmy..." His voice trailed off.

Jim looked at the old man; no doubt he'd aged in the last twenty years, but he was still strong and healthy. There would be more time, he knew that. He held out his hand but his Grandfather grabbed him and pulled him close, patting his back heartily.

"I know... I'll miss you too, Grandpa." With that, he turned and walked away, not wanting to say good-bye. He didn't see the tears that welled in the old man's eyes.

Strolling through the field, her tiny hand tucked in his, Carol Dunbar felt a joy she hadn't felt in years. There hadn't been much time for special moments like this. Holding down two, sometimes three jobs to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads, and fighting with the damn booze to try to maintain some semblance of a normal life had demanded so much of her. While she had tried to make time for her sons, there were many nights when she crawled into bed thinking she'd done a pretty lousy job of it.

Moments like this were affirmation that perhaps she hadn't done so badly after all. She knew Tom and Ricky were fine. Jimmy was the one she worried about the most. He was her eldest and as such, he was the one who had taken on so much of the pain of those years, the brunt of his father's drunken anger directed not at her, but at him. But watching him with his Grandfather for the past week, the easy laughter between the two of them, the chance to sit down with him and talk about things that had never been said, listening to him talk about his job with passion in his voice, she knew he was fine too.

Back at the house, the suitcase safely stowed away in the trunk, he flopped down in the grass under the big oak tree. She sat back, reclining against its massive trunk.

"Jimmy, you haven't mentioned anything about your social life. You keeping anything from your Mom?"

"Like what?" He knew full well where this was going.

"I don't know. Are there any friends back in the City, and you know what I mean by friends. Nothing would make me happier than to see my boys settle down."

"Nah, I haven't mentioned anyone, because there really isn't anyone. You know, it's the job." How could he tell her that there were lots of "friends" back home, just no one he'd want to divulge to his mother. "I guess I haven't found that special someone yet." He stopped and looked at her, a sudden seriousness to his face. "Did you think Dad was the one? I mean... "

"I know what you mean, Cricket." She smiled wistfully. "I wish you could have known what it was like when I first met him. We had nothing but each other and that was enough. Don't get me wrong, we had lots of plans and dreams. When you came along, I thought all my prayers had been answered. And then came Ricky and Tommy and our life was good. We still didn't have much, but we were a family and that's all that mattered."

"Your Daddy worked hard for a lot years and he provided what he could. We were never rich, but we were proud. Then he lost his job and I don't know what else along the way. Somewhere in all of that he mired himself in misery. Honestly, I didn't know what to do. As much as I struggled with it, I couldn't bring myself to leave him."

"Did you think about it? Ever?"

"Leave?" She grew quiet for a minute, than nodded her head. "When he got nasty, I'd think about it a thousand a times a day. But your Daddy was sick and I promised him the day we married that it was for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. That might sound cliche, but you don't walk out on somebody because they're sick. Maybe I made a mistake, I don't know. I kept hoping he'd come back to us, he'd realize that all he needed was right in front of him. You remember, Jimmy, I know you do, the days when it looked like he would."

"Yeah, I remember. Those were the days when I could almost forgive him. But then he'd go right back to that goddamn bottle...I was so angry with him, Mom, for what he was doing to you, for what he did to us. It's funny. I thought I still was but when I think about it now, all I feel for him is sorry. He really blew it."

"What about me, Jimmy? Were you angry with me too?"

"I'm not going to lie to you, Mom." He didn't finish the thought; she knew in his silence what he wouldn't say. "I told you before, I didn't understand it all back then, but I do now."

"Jimmy, one piece of advice from your old mom. If you are lucky enough to find the person you want to spend your life with someday, remember that it's good and bad; you can't know one without the other."

"I know." He rolled onto his side and looked at her. There was sadness in his eyes. "I wish I could have made things a little bit better, Mom. I tried."

She smiled. "You did Cricket, and you still do. Just by being here."

An hour later, she stood in the driveway, watching the car disappear around the bend. Although she knew the tears that had been gathering would fall without protest, she wore a smile of contentment too; the healing had begun. She blew him a kiss; he waved just once and then he was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

1**Before There Was Darkness**

**Part Seven**

His head was pounding, one of those headaches that started at the base of the skull and pulsated in waves of pain, eventually coming to roost squarely behind the eyes; it had been a while since he'd had one quite this strong. He cursed his own vanity; his contact lenses were killing him. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands briskly across his eyebrows, then pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to alleviate some of that pressure; nothing seemed to help. Too many late nights, too much coffee, a definite lack of sleep and bad take-out were probably all to blame for his present state of misery. The December air, heavy with the promise of a good snow, wasn't doing much to help his cause. He'd already swallowed six aspirin and it wasn't yet noon.

"Dunbar, you okay over there?" Dan Bellamy, his partner for the past four months, looked at Jim with concern. "We got to follow-up on that tip that came in this morning. If you're ready, we should roll."

He waved his hand as if to dismiss the concern. "I'm good…..I'm fine," he said, a tone of impatience in his voice.

"You don't mind me saying so, you don't look so fine. You're about as white that piece of paper in your hand."

"Nah, it's just a headache. I'm good." He pulled the long beige trench coat from the back of his chair, grabbed the bottle of aspirin and what was left of his coffee, chasing down two more tablets on the way out the door. "Let's go."

This case had gotten off to a particularly tough start. The message had come across his pager shortly before 5:00 a.m, waking him out of a restless sleep and pulling him away from what he hoped would be a pleasant start to his day. He'd left her sleeping but, as with all of the other "relationships" he'd had, and he used that term lightly, he knew she would be long gone by the time he got home.

Now into the second day of their investigation and they still had nothing, not one solid lead to get them started. That lack of direction was beginning to eat at Jim; he wasn't used to not having at least some little shred of evidence, something to build from. A canvas of the neighborhood had left them squarely where they began, at point zero; no one had seen anything or heard anything; even if they had, and Jim was sure they had, they weren't talking.

CSI had been over the scene with a fine tooth comb; they hadn't come up with any conclusive evidence either, no fingerprints on the car, no traceable DNA evidence, nothing. If their DOA had been carrying a wallet, it was gone, along with any credit cards he might have had and his ID; a search of the missing person's files and the National Criminal Database hadn't elicited a single match. A real John Doe in a stolen car; that's all they had. Well, a John Doe with a single gunshot fired from close range with a '38 revolver and a single round-nosed bullet plucked from the victim's chest during the autopsy. Not much to go on.

Jim had been particularly quiet since leaving the station. Dan couldn't tell if it was the headache or his usual posturing, and he wasn't about to ask. Under normal circumstances, when he got quiet like this, Dan knew the wheels were turning in Dunbar's head. Whatever it was, once he had meshed it around long enough to determine whether he thought it was something worth mentioning, he'd share.

"Hey, Dan, let me run something by you."

Just as predicted, he'd been thinking. "Shoot."

"There's nothing on this guy, no ID, no finger print match, no dental records, nothing."

"Yeah, we got nothin. An anonymous tip we need to follow-up on, but other than that nothin. So where you going with this, Jim?"

" I've been thinking about that tattoo." The ME had found a small tattoo on the DOA's left shoulder blade. " I'm no expert but that looked like some pretty good work, a real pro, maybe a custom job? If we did a little on-line research, we might be able to find a match somewhere?"

"Not a bad idea. You want to hit that when we get back?"

"Yeah. Let's see what we can come up with. We can start with some of the major parlors in the City and spread out from there if we have to."

"Sounds like a plan."

Pulling up in front of a dilapidated three story brownstone, Dan drifted the squad car over to the curb and shut off the engine. Looking at his notepad, he confirmed the information from the hot-line tip. "This should be it. Rough looking place, Jim."

"Yeah, let's watch each other's back. I'm not so sure about this one."

"It says apartment twelve….," Dan groaned, pulling open the front door. "Don't it just figure…three stories up and no elevator. How's that head Jim?"

"Nothing I can't handle. Let's go."

The inside of the building was in a state of disrepair that far surpassed the condition of its exterior. Missing bannister rails, carpeting, if you could call it that, that had seen better days a long time ago. The walls bore too many years of neglect, but the graffiti sprayed on the faded wallpaper was relatively fresh. What little light there was, emitted by the bare bulbs hanging from the peeling ceiling, cast a dull glow on the dank corridors.

"Dunbar, I'm not getting a good feeling about this. Maybe we should call for some back-up?" Dan was still trying to get himself over the hurdle of rookie nerves.

"Let's not jump the gun here. We don't even know what we got, if anything."

"Hey, poor choice of words Jim."

"Sorry about that."

Three stories, seventy-two stairs and a little short of breath, they stopped in front of the pock-marked door labeled "12". Dan knocked. There was no answer. Knocking again, a little louder, he called out, "NYPD, Detectives Dunbar and Bellamy. We'd like to talk to you."

The sound of two chain locks being pulled back greeted them and the door opened a crack. A woman, as unkempt as the building she lived in, peered out through the small space between the door and the jamb.

"What you want?" There was nothing friendly in the tone of her voice.

"Do we have to talk to the door, ma'am? We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"I got nothin' to say to no cops."

"Please ma'am," Jim said, "We're investigating a murder and we got a tip that someone in this apartment might know something. If you do, we'd like to talk to you about it."

"I don't know nothin 'bout no murder. Go away." With that she slammed the door shut in Jim's face.

He stood staring at it, in disbelief. "Was it something I said?"

"We good to get out of her now, Jim?" Dan asked, brushing past his partner to the stairs. He couldn't wait to hit the pavement - something about the place wasn't giving him that warm, fuzzy feeling.

"Well," Jim said from the landing above, "we can't make her open the door. Let's just head back to the squad. I don't like the vibe this place is giving off anyway."

Already halfway down the first flight, Dan stopped and looked back at Jim, ready to reiterate what a great idea he thought that was. What he had time to do was yell "Dunbar, look out!"

Jim did a half-turn on the stairs, in time to see a shadowy figure heading full-speed toward him, across the landing. Where the hell had this guy come from? Even with Dan's warning, there was no time to react, nothing he could do. The guy slammed into him with all of that weight and speed and kept right on running, flying down the stairs past Dan. He didn't hesitate but pulled his weapon and took off in hot pursuit of the fleeing suspect.

Jim fought to keep his balance but it was no use; he tumbled down the stairs and came to an abrupt halt on the landing below, striking his already aching head violently against the wall. Lying there dazed and confused, he couldn't seem to speak or move.

The last thing he saw was Dan crouching over him, that same look of concern on his face. "Dunbar, you okay?"

Then the lights went out.


	8. Chapter 8

1**Before There Was Darkness**

**Part Eight**

"Bus is on the way, Jim. Should be here any time now. How are you doing?"

"Not so good…" No point in lying. He wasn't buying that he was fine; why should anyone else believe it? He felt like he'd been hit by a speeding freight train. His first attempt to get himself upright had been met with an extreme case of dizziness; his head spun, the walls spun, everything else around him caught up in a crazy gyration. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out, but there was no escaping; it was like riding one of those whirling carnival attractions, complete with the nausea, but definitely lacking the fun.

Although he had protested rather loudly at Dan's initial suggestion that he call for an ambulance, he had finally shoved his stubbornness away in his back pocket and acquiesced. This was one time he thought his partner was _absolutely_ right. There was no way he was going to make it back down the remaining 50 something stairs and out to the car.

"I guess it's true what they say. The bigger they are, the harder they fall." Dan was barely 5 foot 7 and a slight build; Jim, at an inch and a bit over 6 feet with a sturdy, athletic build, seemed to tower over him.

"Was that supposed to be funny?" he managed.

"No, I was just going for a little levity. Sorry, Dunbar."

He tried to lift his arm to wave it off. The pain from that one small movement caught his breath short. "_Oh, shit_," he thought to himself, "_My damn arm's broken_."

"Hey," he asked, trying to get his mind off his current predicament, "did you get a good look at the guy?" It was obvious to him, anyway, having just been steam-rolled, that the guy was big and solid. He hadn't seen much, black pants, dark blue hooded sweatshirt, white running shoes, Reebok or Nike, he thought.

"No way. He flew past me and was out the door before I hit the second landing. For a big guy he could move. By the time I got out on the street, he was long gone. I radioed for the ambulance, some back-up and came back here."

"Good, that's good." He could hear a faint siren in the distance. As it drew nearer he recognized that it was the ambulance. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, "What a nightmare this day has turned into, huh?"

It was the last place he ever expected to be; lying on some uncomfortably hard hospital gurney, a flimsy hospital gown and even thinner sheet doing a pretty poor job of maintaining his dignity. He had been poked, prodded and x-rayed. He was cold and tired and sore and growing more and more impatient as the minutes dragged on.

His arm was definitely broken; a hairline fracture of some bone on the inside of his forearm; he'd forgotten what they called it; didn't matter really. What did matter was that he was going to be down and out for a few weeks, assigned to a desk job.

He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn't put so much pressure on his black and blue pressure points. _Ouch! Shit, that hurt - lay still Dunbar. _

"Detective Dunbar? I'm Dr. Gordon." An older man, white haired, bespectacled and very experienced looking, poked his head around the corner and pulled the curtain back. "How are you holding up?" he asked, planting himself on the stool and rolling it over to the bed.

"I just want to go home." What a comforting thought that was; home, where he could get into his sweats, crawl into his own bed, and sleep.

"Not just yet, I'm afraid." Shining his little pen light in Jim's eyes, he uh hmm'd again. "Look to the left for me, good, down, um hm, up, good. Okay." Making some notes on the chart, he turned to Jim, "I'd like to run a CT Scan, then we'll send you up to take care of that wrist and give you a room for the night."

"Is that really necessary?" He couldn't hide the displeasure in his voice.

"According to your partner, you took a pretty good fall and you admit losing consciousness for a while. Just to be on the safe side, I would rather we keep you under watch for the next few hours."

"If you're telling me I have no choice in the matter, fine." He was too tired to fight. It wasn't like he had anything to go home to anyway.

------------------------------------------------

The snow that had been threatening to fall for days was coming down in big, lazy flakes, dusting everything in the city with a coat of fluffy white. Jim stood at the window, watching it fall; he was bored. Cabin fever had already set in and he wasn't cleared to go back to light duty for another week. In the two days since he'd been discharged, he'd already gone through his entire CD collection for the second time and watched as much lame television as he thought he could handle. _What the hell am I supposed do now?_

The ring of the telephone interrupted his thoughts and he shuffled gingerly over to the side table. Walking was a chore; every fiber of his being screamed in protest. He couldn't remember ever being this sore or this bruised or feeling quite this defeated.

"Hello?"

'Jimmy? It's Walter."

'Hey, Walter." There was a little perk in his voice.

"How you doing, kid? Cabin fever set in yet?" Walter already knew the answer to that one. There was no way Jim would adjust well to sitting around.

"You know it."

"Well, do you think you're up for going out for a bit? I'm taking Dottie out to dinner tonight at Madison Bistro. If you felt up to it, we'd like you to join us."

"Sounds great. I am going a little stir crazy here."

"Thought you might be. How about 7:30? We'll pick you up."

"Good, that's good. See you then."

Somehow, as awkward as it was with one good hand, his left hand at that, he managed to get himself showered and shaved and was dressed and waiting when Walter buzzed to let him know they were waiting.

The restaurant was unusually packed for a weeknight, only a couple of empty tables to be seen. The Maitre'D sat them at a small round table in the corner. Jim staked his claim on the chair at the far side of the table, against the wall; safer that way. Dottie helped him shake out of his dark brown leather jacket and pulled the wool scarf from around his neck.

"Still pretty sore, Jim?" she asked, the concern evident in her voice.

"I'm okay, really. It's not too bad."

He sat down slowly, steadying himself on the arm of the chair, and eased his aching body into the seat. "Is this place always this crowded, Walter?"

"Don't know really. It's the first time we've been here. Friend of my recommended it. Said the food was really good."

"You okay to have a drink, Jim? You're not taking anything are you?" Dottie asked.

"No, I'd like a Heineken, please." Once they'd ordered dinner, Jim sat back and took in the ambience of the place. It was warm and inviting, exposed brick, rich, dark wood and splashes of bright color in the art work that lined the walls. Square pillar candles sat on mirrored tiles in the center of each table, casting a soft flickering glow. If the food was as good as the atmosphere, it would explain the popularity the place seemed to enjoy.

Perusing the patrons, he was drawn to her immediately; two tables over and directly in his line of vision; small features, big blue eyes, perfect, petite nose, long dark hair that cascaded around her shoulders in soft waves. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on.

She must have felt his stare, he didn't realize he was, because she shifted her gaze to him and smiled. With that, he was smitten.


	9. Chapter 9

1**Before There Was Darkness**

**Part Nine**

"Jimmy, are you still with us?" Walter's voice harkened him back to reality.

"No, Walter," Dottie teased, "He may be sitting at the same table , but I think his thoughts are occupied two tables over. " She leaned over and whispered, "She's really quite lovely, Jim."

"Ah, now I see what all the fuss is about. No doubt about it, Jimmy. She's a looker. Just like this one was thirty-four years ago." Walter raised his wife's hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

"Now, Walter, you know that's not true," Dottie replied, a fresh blush to her cheeks. "I was never **_that_** pretty."

"Well, I always thought you were, dear. I still do." She swatted him playfully. Jim couldn't help but smile at the two of them. So, this is what marriage was supposed to be, partner for life; obviously Walter had found that, thirty-four years and still in love.

"So," Walter winked, "what are you going to do about it?".

Jim shifted positions in his chair. "If I told you absolutely nothing, would you say I was crazy? That one is way out of my league."

She had excused herself from the table, just once, and his eyes had followed her until she disappeared around the corner at the back of the restaurant. She was long-legged, lean and graceful, all class and beauty and dignity. Judging by the way she was dressed and the way she carried herself, he was more convinced than ever that they were from two different worlds; and a woman like that would never belong anywhere in his.

It was not quite 10:00 when Walter and Dottie dropped him off in front of his building. He made his way very cautiously across the snowy sidewalk and up the steps to the front door. His arm throbbed, his head ached and his whole body was tired. He realized that he had probably pushed the envelope a bit too far and a bit too soon. Maybe there was something to this prescribed down time after all. The Doctor had tried to warn him that with any head injury, concussions included, there would be periods like this for the next week or two. _Damn if he wasn't right,_ Jim thought.

He had made it very clear to Jim that he shouldn't fight the urge to rest, let his brain tell his body what it needed. Right now it was screaming for sleep. He changed into his sweat pants and t-shirt and eased himself down onto the bed. As tired as he was, though, sleep was an elusive friend. When he closed his eyes and willed the exhaustion to pull him under and allow him to drift off into the dark, his mind was fully awake, torturing him with thoughts of her. He couldn't think of anything else; hadn't thought about anything else since that initial smile.

As much as he had tried to concentrate his efforts on enjoying the rest of his evening with Walter and Dottie, he found he had a hard time focusing his attention at his own table. He tried not to be too obvious about it but he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her. Every attempt on his part to be discreet had failed; each time he had glanced her way, casually or otherwise, she had caught him looking. But, he had caught her too, once or twice, watching him over the rim of her wine glass.

_Okay, Dunbar, enough already. How is it that she's got you all twisted in knots? You know absolutely nothing about her, other than the fact that she is so incredibly, frigging beautiful. God, all she had to do was smile and that was it, she had you, hook, line and sinker._

What he was sure of was that the internal battle he was currently waging with himself was all but over anyway. There was nothing to be done about it now; it had been too late the minute he sat back and watched her walk out of the restaurant and disappear into the snowy night. He had done _absolutely _nothing to stop her.

He sat in the dining room, a pen clutched clumsily in his left hand, a writing tablet flipped open on the table in front of him. When he woke, early, with thoughts of her still consuming him, he recognized that perhaps he had made a monumental mistake. Why hadn't he said something, approached her somehow or at least handed her his business card?

_But no, Dunbar, you idiot, you made a decision based on your own goddamn insecurities and you let her walk away. Stupid, stupid, stupid. _

After making a pot of coffee, he set his mind to creating a list of all the things he knew for certain; he was, after all, a Detective. In a city of millions, it clearly wasn't impossible to find her; although it would require some effort on his part but he had five days of down time left to kill and nothing better to do with them.

Her party had been at the Bistro when they arrived for their 8:00 dinner reservation;was there a reservation for 7 with a question mark. The restaurant was on Madison Avenue; was it possible that she worked somewhere on Madison with a question mark. She had been with a fairly large group, maybe ten to twelve people, mostly women, a couple of men; work gathering with a question mark. He had already tried to call the restaurant, much too early. The answering machine said open at noon.

He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It didn't seem to be ticking the time away fast enough. _If I get my ass in gear, get showered, dressed and hop the train, I can be at the front door when they open. Beats the hell out of sitting around here, waiting to make a phone call. Let's do it._

It was difficult to shave with his left hand; he'd struggled with it the night before. Although there was definitely a little shadow of stubble, he decided to pass, just in case._ Hard to impress someone with a piece of toilet paper glued to your cheek._

He dressed carefully, with the hope that he was going to have to make a good second impression; God knows whether her first impression of him, if she had a first impression, had been memorable. Dark grey tailored slacks, lighter grey shirt and a v-neck sweater in a cross stitch pattern of muted blue and grey. When she had given it to him, his mom had suggested that it accented his beautiful baby blues. Black belt and black leather loafers, black leather jacket and out the door; he was a man on a mission.

It was just after twelve when he pulled open the front door of Madison Bistro. "Good afternoon, Sir." The young hostess looked up from her lunch manifest, and smiled at Jim. "Can I get you a table?"

"No, thank you, I'm not here for lunch. Actually, I'm looking for some information." He flashed his badge. "There was a party in here last night, at that table," he gestured awkwardly to the long table in front of the window. "I need to know if there is any record of who might have had that reservation."

"I don't have that information, but if you'd like to wait a minute, I'll check with the manager."

"Thanks." Jim leaned against the bar. The bar stools looked a little high and given the uncooperative nature of his bruised muscles, he didn't think he was up to tackling that challenge just yet. He tapped his fingers nervously on the burled walnut.

"Detective? I understand you're looking for some information."

"Yes, please. I'm hoping you still have your records from last night. The occupants of the long table in front of the window. A group of ten or twelve, I believe."

"I have the manifest right here. Let's see, yes, here it is. We had a 7:00 reservation for Style Magazine in the name of Christine Sullivan."

"Style Magazine." He couldn't help but smile. "That's great. Just what I needed."

Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, thank you. I can take it from here."

Directory provided him with the telephone number, a reverse match provided him with the address and within thirty minutes, he was on the elevator, heading for the 24th floor of 383 Madison Avenue and the headquarters of Style Magazine.

Pushing open the solid beveled glass doors, he approached the crescent shaped reception desk. _Pretty swanky place_, he thought to himself. Lots of smoked glass, pale blond wood panels, etched mirrors and ornate brocade furniture.

"Excuse me. I'm looking for a Christine Sullivan."

"If you'd like to take a seat, sir, I'll check and see if she's available. Is she expecting you?"

"No, I don't believe she is. But this is quite important."

"Your name?"

"Dunbar, Detective Jim Dunbar with the NYPD."

He stood watching while she placed the call; he didn't think he could sit, even if he wanted to; he was nervous, ridiculously nervous for someone his age.

"Yes, Ms. Sullivan, there's a Detective Dunbar to see you...No, he didn't say what it was in reference to...but he did say it was important...Yes, I'll tell him." She hung up the phone. "She's just finishing up with a client but she'll be right with you "

"Thank you." He walked over to the waiting area and studied the framed prints on the paneled wall. Magazine covers from each of the past twelve months. Style magazine was exactly what it sounded like, women's fashion, and the obvious reason for the manner in which his mystery woman had been dressed last night.

A very soft, very feminine voice interrupted his thoughts, "Detective Dunbar? I'm Christine Sullivan."

Not sure what to expect he turned around slowly, and there she stood.


	10. Chapter 10

1**Before There Was Darkness LongLashes1**

Part Ten

"It's you." He wasn't entirely sure what flashed across that beautiful face or exactly what was reflected in her big blue grey eyes; shock definitely, but he also thought he might have detected a hint of pleasure there as well.

"Yeah, it's me. Look, I'm sorry to barge in on you like this ..." He felt very much like a little school boy, a very shy, very nervous little school boy.

She was as gracious as she was attractive. She placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Why don't we move to my office. I have a little time before my next appointment." He followed her back to a large corner office; her name was on the door. _Definitely out of your league_, he thought to himself, _way out_.

"Please, sit," she said, gesturing to a soft green leather couch. As inviting as it appeared, he looked at it a little hesitantly. "Or maybe you'd be more comfortable in one of the chairs? Can I get you something, a coffee, tea, or a soda?."

"A coffee would be great if it's no trouble." She hit the intercom on her desk. "Mandy, would you bring us a carafe and two mugs. Thank you."

Jim shrugged his jacket off and laid it over the arm of the couch. He managed, somehow, to get himself planted in the chair. She caught him wincing at the effort; he was obviously still feeling some pain, meaning that this injury was relatively recent. _And yet, here he is; he came looking for you._

"You're hurt," she said, an undertone of sympathy in her voice. "I couldn't help but notice last night. Is that a hazard of the job?"

"In this case, yes. I met a perp who just happened to be a little bigger than me."

She looked genuinely concerned. "Does that happen often?"

"I hope not." He grinned at her.

_Great smile. Warm, genuine, good sense of humor. _"So, Detective Dunbar..."

"Jim., please."

"So, Jim, to what do I owe this unexpected visit? I take it this is not official business because you haven't shown me your badge or read me my rights." She sat down on the couch, and crossed those incredibly long legs. Pouring a mug of coffee, she handed it to him. "Cream or sugar?"

"Just black, please," he said, reaching out to take the steaming mug from her and setting it on the table. _No ring on her left hand. Damn good thing. _He was struck by the notion that he hadn't spent nearly enough time thinking this out before dashing out the door, not half as much as he probably should have. _What the hell would you have done if she were married?_

"This is a little awkward...I know that's how I'm feeling, anyway." _Come on, you're a grown man, for God's sake. Just spit it out._ "I believe I made a mistake last night and I'd like a chance to make it right."

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean." There was a look of definite confusion on her face.

"I, uh, ..." he hesitated, slightly, "that is, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. There I said it... I apologize if that seems a little forward and I hope I'm not out of line here." He looked at her, catching his lower lip in his teeth, waiting, watching for her reaction, some sort of reaction, any reaction at all.

"Well," she smiled, "to tell you the truth, Detective, I spent the better part of my evening thinking about you, too. And I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little disappointed that you didn't do something about it last night."

The nerves he had been struggling to control seemed to dissipate in that instant. "So, this wasn't necessarily a bad move on my part? Coming here?"

Christine shook her head. "No, I don't think it was."

"I am so glad to hear you say that."

"I have to admit, I was more than a little curious when they paged me to tell me there was a Detective looking for me. It was a very pleasant surprise to see you in the lobby." She took a dainty sip of her coffee."But if I might ask, how did you find me?"

There was a little touch of teasing in his grin. "I'm a Detective. I had a few places to look."

She laughed easily. "That's what I would call putting the job to work for you. How long have you been a detective, Detective?"

"Not quite two years."

"And before that?" She was trying to do the math; late twenties, early thirties?

"I've been a cop for almost 8 years, beat cop first , then anti-crime."

"All of it here in the City?"

"Yes. I grew up here." He stopped himself short, not wanting to mention the ties to Red Hook, just yet. He hoped she wouldn't ask. She didn't.

"And what is it that you investigate now, Detective?" she asked, intrigued.

"Homicides." He said it so matter of factly. Seeing the look on her face, he added, "I know, but someone's got to do it. It may as well be me."

"I'm not sure I know too many people who would have the stomach for that kind of work." She glanced at her watch. "Oh, I hate to cut this short but I have a meeting in15 minutes . Can we continue this conversation another time?"

"How about tomorrow night?"

"I'm afraid I can't. Please don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that we have a big show early next week. I'm afraid my calendar is full from now until Tuesday with meetings and preparation."

"Well, then, how about Wednesday? Dinner?"

"I'd like that." She flashed him another one of those gorgeous smiles. Walking over to her desk, she pulled something from her top desk drawer and brought it to him. "Here's my card. Why don't you call me on Wednesday and tell me what you have in mind."

"That sounds good."

She lifted his jacket from the arm of the couch and held it up so he could slip into it. "I'll walk you out." They said good-bye at the main door to the reception area.

"So, see you on Wednesday, Jim?" It wasn't a question really; she was certain he would call.

"Yeah, I'll see you then." Half way out the door, he turned," It was nice to meet you, Christine Sullivan."

"Likewise, Detective."

There was a little extra energy in his step as he crossed the lobby of Style Magazine. She floated back to her office. Five days was a long time to wait but she was very much aware that as full as her schedule was the time would fly by. Wednesday would be here before she knew it.

A light snow was beginning to fall as he exited the building and stepped out into the bustle of mid-afternoon Madison Avenue. The heartbeat of the city raced around him; horns honked, traffic moved slowly like a weaving serpent along the street. He was oblivious to that world, lost in contemplation.

She had surprised him. Her beauty was without question; if it were possible she was even more so today. Where he was big and all rough edges, she was petite and refined, almost delicate. Although he had expected there to be a hint of arrogance, there was none. She was so very real; down to earth and unassuming. The smile that had captivated him in the first place was never far away; and the laugh that accompanied it was full of life. He had never met anyone quite like her. Seeing her again was five long days away; he hoped the time between now and then would slip by in a New York minute.

Passing a small flower shop, he ducked inside and placed a standing order for a single long-stemmed red rose. _A rose a day for five days should keep me fresh in her mind, _he thought.

He didn't need anything to keep her in his.


	11. Chapter 11

1**Before There Was Darkness LongLashes1**

**Part Eleven**

"Hey, Dunbar, welcome back. Good to see you." Jim was not in the mood to hear how glad his partner was to have him back. If would be fine, if it were true.

"I wish, Bellamy. But I'm not officially back on full duty until I get the final clearance. Right now, I've got a ticket that says I'm good for light duty." He wasn't entirely thrilled about it either; he had argued vehemently with the Doctor at his follow-up appointment earlier in the morning.

"Come on, Doc, my head is fine. I haven't had any symptoms for a couple of days now. No headaches, no dizzy spells, no blurred-vision."

"Sorry, Detective, not good enough. If you could tell me that you'd been symptom free for a week that would mean something. Unfortunately, though, for you and me, your head isn't the only thing I need to pass clearance on here."

"If I come back on Friday and I'm still good, what then? Could you cut me a break?'

"I'm afraid my hands are tied by the Department's own policy. Until you can perform all the requirements of your job, and correct me if I'm wrong, but the ability to drive a car and draw your weapon are all part of the normal requirements, I can't give you a full duty pass."

"Is there anyway that this thing can come off sooner than you think?" he asked, referring to the cumbersome cast that encased his right arm, knuckles to elbow.

"Not likely. We'll do another x-ray in a couple of weeks and give you a better prognosis then."

Jim raised both arms, waving his left hand in a dismissive gesture of utter exasperation. "Alright, alright. If that's the best I'm going to get."

"I'm afraid that's all I can do. Sorry, Detective, but here's your light duty pass." So that was that, and that was so damn frustrating! How many times had he been forced to draw his weapon in the past two years? Twice, three times tops. And driving a car; isn't that what partners were for? _Damn it_, he thought to himself, _I just want to get back to work, do my job._

"So, you tied to the desk, Jim?"

He scowled. "Looks like it, until I get this damn thing off," he said, holding up his right arm.

"Geez, sorry, Jim. That sucks." Jim had made it very clear that he didn't hold a particular admiration for the administrative aspects of police work. Delegation was a power tool especially when you had a rookie partner and he had used it to his advantage.

"Tell me about it." He dropped his coat over the back of his chair and pulled his laptop from its case, glancing at the files still sitting in his in-box where he had dumped them last week. At least he had a few reports to get typed and filed; that would occupy some of his time.

"Hey, how are things going on the investigation?" he asked, referring to what had landed him in this quandary in the first place.

"We're working a couple of leads on the perp. But we did some research on that tattoo like you suggested. Damn if we didn't get a match! We pinned it down to a New Jersey gang out of Trenton, bunch of real badasses, Jim. ID'd our DOA on Monday, Reggie Dees, twenty-six, long rap sheet, drug trafficking, car theft, gun running, you name it. Good news is, I think we're pretty close to blowing the whole thing wide open."

"That's great. Congratulations." It was difficult to mask his irritation. He had such an incredible itch to get back out in the field. He wasn't going to be able to scratch that itch until he had full use of his right arm. That meant no cast and that meant at least three more weeks.

As irritated as he was with that predicament, though, he wasn't about to let anything detract from the one bright spot to this day. Pulling his wallet from his coat pocket, he flipped it open and removed the business card she had handed him; the one he'd checked for everyday, just to make sure it was still there.

Not wanting to appear too anxious, he had talked himself into waiting until after his Doctor's appointment. Considering the manner in which his morning had been progressing to this point, downhill in a hurry, he wasn't inclined to wait any longer. _Christine Sullivan; Executive Fashion Editor; Style Magazine._ He dialed the main number listed on the front of her card.

"Christine Sullivan, please…Yes, it's Detective Jim Dunbar." Dan looked over at his partner and raised one eyebrow. He'd have to hear about this one later.

"Hey, it's Jim……Yeah, I'm good, thank. You?...Oh, you got them, that's great…you're welcome... I'm glad. That was the whole point…I do? Sorry, I guess I am a little down…. .No, it's nothing, really. I was just hoping to get a full work clearance this morning...not yet…But enough of that…How was the show?…Good, that's good…So, are we still on for tonight?...How about 7:00?…Pick you up there?…That's fine, that's good…Wear something warm and casual, okay, nothing too dressy…Hey, how do I get in after hours?…In the lobby at 7:00…Great. See you then." He hung up the phone, a slight smile on his face. Things were definitely beginning to look up.

"So, what's up with that, Jim?" He'd noticed Dan trying to making a very concerted effort to look like he wasn't eavesdropping.

"Nothing, it's nothing." _At least it's nothing yet, _he thought.

He had put a great deal of thought into this first date; it helped to fill the slow passage of time on his down days. More than that, though, was his desire for it to be something special. He didn't want an ordinary evening to make that all-important third impression; she certainly wasn't, by any stretch of the imagination, just an ordinary woman.

Stepping out of the carriage, he crossed the sidewalk and gave the revolving door a solid push. It was not quite 7:00 but she was already there, waiting for him. He had mentioned casual attire for their evening out but this outfit went far beyond his expectations; she was in a word, breathtaking. She had chosen a soft red turtleneck that hugged her petite curves in all the right areas and paired it with tight form fitting black jeans that only served to emphasize how very long and slender her legs really were. A matching black pea jacket and bright red scarf were draped casually over her elegant shoulders. She turned at the sound of the door and smiled shyly.

In his hand, he held another single, long stem red rose. "This is for you," he said, holding it out to her. "You look amazing."

"Thank you," she said softly. "So do you." That little hint of pleasure was back in her eyes and that was a good sign.

"You ready?" She slipped her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, tucked the scarf under the collar and nodded. Jim placed his hand gently on her arm. "Well, then, let's go."

"Where are you taking me? You've been very secretive about your plans for tonight. I thought we agreed that when you called you were going to tell me what you had in mind."

"We did, and I will, when the time is right."

They stepped out into the chill of a mid-December evening. The winter sky was clear; small white puffs of cotton candy clouds floated in a sea of black. The air was crisp and cold, too dry for snow.

"Your carriage awaits, Ms. Sullivan."

She looked up and gasped; it stopped her in her tracks. Waiting at the curb was an open white buggy, drawn by a lone white horse, his tail and mane braided with red ribbons, a collar of jingle bells and holly around his neck. The horseman, attired in black tails and a top hat, stood beside the rig, holding the small side door open for them.

"This is amazing, Jim." There was that look of pleasure again.

"Good, that's what I was going for." He reached behind the seat and pulled out a thick woolen blanket, opening it wide and patted the seat beside him, a hint that he wanted her to slide a little closer. "Warm enough?" he asked, as he tucked it in tightly around them. "We've got a bit of a ride ahead of us. There's another blanket back there if we need it."

'No, this is good. I'm fine, thank you. But you're not going to tell me where we're going are you?"

"What's the matter, Christine, you don't like surprises?" He turned to her and grinned. Everything he needed to see, wanted to see, was reflected in her beautiful eyes. At that moment, he knew it; he had her.


	12. Chapter 12

1**Before There Was Darkness LongLashes1**

**Part Twelve**

There was something special about the city at Christmas; the enchantment of the store windows adorned in their holiday finest, strings of lights garlanded across the barren tree branches like strands of multi-colored jewels, the unspoiled beauty of the city streets cloaked in the glistening diamonds of a new fallen snow. With the bells jingling in perfect rhythm to the spirited canter of the horse drawing the carriage and the tranquil beauty of the winter world surrounding them, it was exactly the beginning Jim had hoped for.

"Hey, are you okay?" He looked down at her, snuggled tightly against his arm, her cheeks rosy from the cold night air, her eyes bright and full of life.

"I am. This is wonderful, Jim. I haven't had a carriage ride in, I don't really remember when. I was just a little girl. And I've never had one in winter. It's magic." He knew she thought it was; it was written in the expression on her face and the sparkle in her eyes. "So, are you ready to tell me where we're going?"

"I don't remember saying I would." Jim hoped to draw this out for as long as possible. He was intent on not giving up the secret just yet. It had cost him some very old, very big favors but he had gladly paid the price.

Passing Rockefeller Center, he leaned forward and tapped the horseman on the shoulder, indicating that he should stop. The majesty of the tree was, as it had been each and every year before, more spectacular than the last. Its reflection was echoed a thousand times over in the dark glass facades of the buildings sheltering the plaza. A flurry of bright colors and laughter filled the night air as the skaters whirled and glided their way across the frozen surface of the pond.

"It looks like they're having a ball out there. Do you skate, Jim?"

He laughed. "No. But if I ever decide I could risk another broken arm, I might just give it a shot. You?"

"Another one of those things I did a long time ago. I haven't skated in years. I don't even know if I would remember how." Settling back on the seat again, resting comfortably in the crook of his arm, she gazed up at him. "So, if you don't skate, I guess this isn't our final destination this evening?"

"That's right."

"Oh, come on, Jim, please," she pleaded with him. "Just a hint?"

"Alright, alright. Since you seem to be having such a hard time with this." He grinned. "It involves snow and lights. Lots of snow and lots of lights."

"What kind of hint is that? That could be just about anywhere."

"Exactly and that's as specific as I'm going to get."

"You love this don't you?" She mocked frustration, but there was a lighthearted, playfultone to her voice.

"As I said before, Christine, don't you like surprises?" He tapped the horseman again and the carriage moved on.

They wound their way leisurely along the rim of Central Park and onto West 67th Street, coming to a final stop at the opulence of Tavern on the Green. As grandiose as the old red brick and stone structure was on any other occasion, at Christmas it was a true vision. Every nearby tree was a shimmer with white lights wrapped tightly round the trunks and laced through the starkness of the bare branches. Each window of the grand old building was aglow with white paper lanterns and tiny fairy lights. There wasn't a nook or cranny, outside or in, that wasn't touched with some symbol of the season.

He took her hand and helped her down from the carriage. Her eyes were radiant. She wrapped her hand tightly around his arm and smiled. "I should have known, Jim. It's beautiful!" She brushed his cheek lightly with a gentle kiss, affirmation for him of what he thought he had read in her expression earlier in the evening.

"I'm glad you're pleased." Escorting her along the brick walkway, his hand positioned in the small of her back, he marveled at how well things appeared to be going. Even on those few occasions where silence had descended between them, it had seemed natural. There was an easy calm to those quiet moments. He had never known that with anyone else.

Seated at a window table in the Crystal Pavilion, the splendor of Central Park cloaked in its mantle of white before them, the black velvet backdrop of the sky behind it, they toasted their first date and each other. It seemed so appropriate to Jim that meeting her had occurred at the end of a year that had already seen so many changes in his life, and at the beginning of another. One, that at this moment, with his fingers contentedly entwined with hers, held the promise of something so new.

* * *

"Jimmy, take me back to your place." She had leaned over and whispered it softly but there was a sultriness to the tone of her voice. He hadn't heard it before.

Although they had been seeing each other regularly, spending as many of their waking moments together as possible, it surprised him that she would be the first to hint that their relationship should progress to that next plateau. He hadn't wanted to push too hard or too soon and had never attempted to broach the subject with her; her suggestion that she was ready to move forward was all he needed to hear.

"Okay, then, let's get out of here." He dropped a twenty on the table, more than sufficient to cover the tab for their shortened evening.

Unlocking the front door, he led her down the hall toward the darkened bedroom and reached for the light switch. She put her hand out to stop him.

"No, leave it off for now," she managed, pulling him closer to her, catching his mouth with hers. One hand played lazily in the back his hair, the other fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. With the satisfaction of finally baring the taut muscles of his chest and shoulders, she slid the shirt down his arms and let it drop carelessly to the floor. She trailed her lips across his. Her tongue traced a path down his chin, his neck, his chest, across the muscles of his stomach and stopped just short of his waistline. She reached for his pants, unbuckled his belt and moved her hand slowly down, until she found him. Her fingers touched, caressed and teased.

"Christie." His breath was ragged in his chest, his heart pounding. He drew her back up to him and lifted the sweater over her head, tossing it into the corner . The thin satin of her camisole was no match for his will to explore, to feel, to touch. He raised the camisole and buried his head in the valley between her breasts; his hands moved tenderly over the gentle curves of body to the waistband of her skirt. Sliding under the soft fabric of her panties, his fingers trailed lower until he felt her tremble beneath his touch.

With his arm encircling her waist, her mouth help captive by his, he walked her backward slowly and lowered her gently to the bed, engulfing her small body under his. There was a passionate heat behind her kiss, a need behind her touch and a desire in her eyes. He knew his desire was there, too, laid bare for her to see.

They stripped off the final barriers and explored, as only new lovers could. When, at last, she took him deep inside, they moved together in perfect rhythm, poetry between them, a rhyming of their newfound desire for each other. Their motions were slow and deliberate, gentle at times, forceful at others. And when it appeared that they were both close to the pinnacle, he slowed and pulled back, not wanting to end it too soon. Every change in her expression, every emotion in her eyes was firmly etched in his mind. This time, their first time, was meant to be remembered.

Finally allowing themselves to reach the height of their passion, climaxing as one, they laid together, spent, exhausted and satisfied. He kissed her tenderly on the top of her head and pulled her closer to him, every curve of her body a fit with his. Then they slept.

* * *

Morning was just breaking, the sun not quite a splinter of pale light in the cold gray of the mid-winter sky. It was much too early to be awake but sleep seemed to elude him, again, just as it had for the past several nights. Thoughts of her ran circles around his need for rest.

Four days ago, he had driven her to LaGuardia, watched her board that plane to Los Angeles, and on the long drive back into the City, faced the fact that she was gone and he felt nothing more than alone. Their conversations each night only served to intensify his heightened sense of solitude and he found himself counting the hours between her calls. It was easy to deal with the loneliness during the day with his mind firmly focused on his job.

Occupied by the tasks at hand, he didn't have time to let those feelings overwhelm him. But the minute he hung up the gun at the end of the day and closed the locker door, his mind would inevitably wander to her, to his need to see her, be with her, to hold her, to make love to her. There was absolutely no denying it; he missed her, everything about her, above all, all the little things that he had grown so accustomed to.

He missed being able to gaze into her eyes, to see the raw emotion reflected there, her warmth, her humor, her pleasure. He missed the feel of her hair, the softness of it against his skin. He missed her scent, the subtle, feminine bouquet of it, the lingering effect it seemed to have on him. He missed the touch of her hand, small and delicate, but seeming, somehow, to belong in his. He missed her smile; he had heard it in her voice but the effect wasn't the same when he couldn't see how that smile lit up her beautiful face.

He wondered if it was even possible that his life could have changed so drastically in such a short period of time. This woman, the one who, just a few short months ago he had determined to be way out of his league, who couldn't possibly occupy a place in his world, seemed to equal him, satisfy him and complete him as no one else had been able to do. When he was with her, it was as though the blank spaces in the canvas of his life were finally satiated with color; the picture was perfect and whole.

_God, Dunbar, you are so screwed! She's under your skin and she's in deep. But, is this really as good as I think it is? Isn't it just a little too soon to know for sure? Does anyone ever really know for sure or is it just a leap of faith? _

_What do I have to base any of this on, anyway?_ _It's not like I have anything to compare it to…Or maybe I do. And that's why I know what good feels like; because I've lived through the bad and I know that's not what I want my life to be. I want it to be like this._

He glanced over at the clock; another seven hours and she would be back on the ground and back in his life. It was going to be a very long day.

Picking up the phone, he dialed a long distance number. The phone rang, once, twice, three times. _Come on, please answer._

"Hello?" Her voice was sleepy; he'd completely forgotten about the time change.

"Mom, it's Jimmy."

"Jimmy," there was a sudden urgency to her voice. "Is everything okay? It's so early."

"Yeah, sorry about that. But Mom, I have something to tell you."


	13. Chapter 13

1**Before There Was Darkness **

**Part Thirteen**

"Jimmy…" A lazy Saturday afternoon, the remnants of a picnic lunch still spread on the ground beside them, they reclined on the blanket under the warmth of the spring sun. The Park wasn't yet crowded, a peaceful setting still a possibility and they had found one, sheltered under the green canopy of the budding trees. Another weekend or two, with the sun a little higher in the sky, the trees in full leaf, the boats moored again in the lake in anticipation of new lovers, signs of renewed life would return to the City and spill over into the Park.

"Ummm?" An air of quiet contentment had settled over him. Christie was snuggled against, him, her head resting contentedly on his shoulder, her body melded tightly to his. Her arm draped casually across his chest, her fingers tracing an abstract zigzag on his shirt.

"Tell me about your family." She could feel him stiffen slightly under her touch.

He opened one eye and peered at her. "What would you like to know?"

"Everything," she said, raising her head up, imploring him with the depth of those beautiful eyes, eyes he could easily lose himself in.

He knew this was coming; at some point it had to. While he had managed to steer their conversations clear of that subject, it was inevitable that she would want to know. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and drew his chin down in a matching shrug.

"Not much to tell, really. Mom lives in Indiana. I have two brothers, both younger, both in Indiana. Ricky's a cop, Deputy Chief in Muncie and Tommy's a civil engineer with the State.'

"I thought you said you grew up here, in the City?"

"I did, we did. She left a few years ago." He lowered his head and closed his eyes again.

"Is that it?" He had made it clear to her before that there were facets of his life that he guarded very closely. It was never easy with him; sometimes getting him to talk about things was like trying to pull teeth.

"No, of course that's not it." He paused. When he continued, it was with carefully chosen words. "Christie, I grew up in Red Hook. My father drank, a lot. I was 17 when he died." There was still that tinge of bitterness in his voice; it had a habit of sneaking up on him, invariably anytime the conversation turned to that man. He certainly hadn't intended it to, not with her.

"Jimmy, I'm sorry," she said, a sympathetic quietness to her tone.

"For what? Me? Don't be."

"No, not for you. I'm sorry because I didn't mean to pry open any old wounds. I just wanted to know about your family."

"Yeah, well now you know. I didn't grow up in the kind of home most kids dream about."

"Jimmy, please. What did you think would happen if you shared that with me? That I'd hold it against you or somehow think any less of you?"

"No, it's not that." He fought to control the sudden edge that had crept into his voice. "It's just a place I don't like to go."

She laced his fingers with her own and brought his hand to her mouth, brushing it with her lips. "Okay, okay," she soothed, "I won't ask again. But, Jimmy, when you're ready, let me in, please."

He rolled over and raised himself over her, confining her slender body beneath the bulk of his own. What he saw reflected on her face and in her eyes touched him; his hurt was her hurt. A wave of emotion swept over him. He took her beautiful face gently between his hands, cradling her, and lowered his mouth to hers. The intensity of the tenderness behind that kiss left them both breathless.

Holding her close, wrapped tightly in his embrace, he said quietly, "Believe me, Christie, you're already in." Finally releasing her, he patted her firmly on the behind. "Hey, let's head back to my place. What I'd like to do with you right now could get us both arrested."

She pulled back and laughed, that easy, spirited laugh that made his heart sing. "Well, then, what are you waiting for? Let's go."

* * *

He couldn't concentrate; tension was taking hold of the muscles at the base of his neck and arcing though his shoulders and back. He stretched until he heard the familiar crack in his spine; but that old trick didn't provide him with the relief he was so desperately seeking. Swallowing the last of what was now ice-cold coffee, he made his way down the hall to the break room, chiding himself as he walked. "_Come on, Dunbar, snap out of it!_

It wasn't like him to let his personal life interfere with his ability to focus on the job. He had tried to curb the multitude of thoughts running amok in his head and concentrate on the case file in front of him. But, having read the same sentence at least a dozen times over, he realized it was a useless endeavor and snapped the file shut. Reaching for the phone, he dialed a familiar number.

"Walter, it's Jimmy. Do you think you could meet me for a beer later?"

"Yeah, sure kid. Something on your mind?"

"I guess you could say that."

"Casey's? 5:00?"

'Great, that's great. See you then." He needed someone to talk to; he needed Walter. He certainly couldn't turn to his partner, not for this conversation.

The friendship that was so often cultivated between partners, working that closely together, day in and day out, trusting that person with you life, wasn't there with Dan. He was a little too young, a little too green, his interests a little too different. Jim appreciated the fact that as a partner, he couldn't have asked for anyone better to watch his back. Beyond that, though, there were no common denominators to encourage the bonds of friendship.

Seated in the privacy of a booth in the back corner of the bar, the din of the regular 5:00 cop crowd behind him, Jim glanced over at his mentor. He took a long swig from the bottle and set it back down on the table, twisting it absently between his hands. "I'm in trouble here, Walter."

"What's up kid? What's eating you?"

He tilted his head to the side and stretched his back and shoulders. "Do you remember that night at the Bistro, right after my accident?"

Walter shook his head in agreement. "Yeah, I remember…are we talking about who I think we're talking about?"

"We are."

"Jimmy, that was a long time ago, and if I remember correctly, you let that one get away."

"I did. But I went looking for her, Walter."

"You'll have to tell me about that sometime. I take it you found her?"

He nodded his head. "I did…and we've been seeing each other since."

"Jimmy that was, what, over seven months ago and this is the first I'm hearing about it? How could you keep something like that so quiet?"

"Come on, Walter."

"Yeah, I know kid. Building those walls again?" He was more than aware from past experience that Jim would guard something this important, hold it close to his chest until he was ready to let it go. "So, how can I help?"

Jim paused, his fingers nervously drumming the table. His silence apparently spoke volumes, the unsaid words conveying everything he wasn't quite ready to admit, not yet, not out loud, not even to Walter.

"You're in love with her, aren't you?" Walter's face split into a wide grin. He reached over and grabbed Jim by the arm. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

Jim could feel the flush on his cheeks. He looked a little sheepish, recalling the last time Walter had asked him that same question. "That what I wanted to talk to you about, Walter. I need some advice. And, since you and Dottie have made such a long go of it and still seem happy…"

Walter stopped him short. "You know, the problem with you, kid, is that you think too much. You don't need advice from me, Jimmy. You already know."

That much was true; he was well aware of the revelations of his heart. His feelings for her had grown so easily, so swiftly, it had surprised him. There was absolutely no denying the hold she had on him. But for all the truth he recognized in those feelings, there was still that underlying sense of insecurity. As outwardly confident as he appeared to be, inwardly he cursed those insecurities and the affect they seemed to have on the more personal dimensions of his life.

He was scared; scared of commitment, scared of rejection, scared of all those long-suppressed emotions, the ones he had yet tofully reconcile. Before her, those parts of his life had always been casual, no strings, no promises. He had never allowed himself to love, not like this, to become so attached to anyone, to want or to need the way he did with her. Falling in love with her was a complication; one that he wasn't sure he was the least bit prepared for; and yet, that's exactly where he found himself, totally and helplessly in love.

He shrugged his chin, took pause for a minute and then he grinned. "You're right, Walter, you're absolutely right. You know, I think I'm going to ask her to marry me."

"Ah, that's great, kid, just great!" He laughed. "I'm glad we had this little talk, Jimmy, glad I could help you set things straight. You didn't need me; you just needed to say it."

Jim laughed too; there was no stopping it. The stress had released him and in its place a sense of peace, the knowledge that his decision was the right one, a realization that she was the right one. He knew his life would never be the same, he could never think of himself again without thinking of her too. He raised his bottle in salute. "Yeah, thanks for that, huh? Hey, Walter, if she'll have me, I'm getting married."

"Oh, I think she will. Hey, Jimmy, you haven't even told me her name."

"It's Christine, Christine Sullivan."

Walter snapped his fingers, signaling the waiter. "We need a couple more beers here please. Looks like we've got something to celebrate."


	14. Chapter 14

1**Before There Was Darkness LongLashes1**

**Part Fourteen**

It had been years since Jim last stepped foot in the ring, laced up his gloves for the final time and felt the exhilaration of winning a hard-fought battle; but he could still find a significant measure of gratification, going a few rounds with the speed bag; the solid smack of clenched fist against leather, the effortless cadence of his hands and arms as he worked the bag, hand over hand, until his whole torso was drawn into the fluidity of the exercise. The passage of time hadn't registered any adverse affect on his abilities; he still moved like a fighter.

Working the bag was one of those things that required absolutely no focus on his part. He could do it with his eyes closed, he was that familiar with the reaction of the bag and that sure of the rhythm of his body. Once he was in that groove, had arrived at that place where his mind and body performed in perfect synchronicity, he could immerse himself in the nothingness. With a severe case of nerves wreaking havoc with his thoughts and tying his stomach in knots, he needed that nothingness this day, more so than he had in a long while.

He had already second-guessed himself a thousand times over the past twenty-four hours; the unrequited doubts constantly needling him, because, as Walter had so astutely pointed out, he really did think too much. His heart had already accepted that Christie was the one, the only one who could make him feel whole. As much as he wanted to listen to the voice of his heart, his head was preoccupied with an ongoing analysis of the glaring differences that existed between her world and his.

There was no doubt that she challenged him, asked of him things that he wasn't ready to give, demanded an openness that no one else had sought from him. But those moments, the moments where she pushed him to share, dared him to talk about things he had hidden long ago, to let her in, were eclipsed by the quiet contentment he had found with her; long walks together, hand in hand, the conversation flowing easily between them, lazy Saturday mornings, snuggled together, unmoving, appreciating, the silence between them unforced and unbroken, relaxing Sunday brunches that more often than not took them well into early afternoon, the simple pleasures they knew from just being with one another. Those were the moments that defined their relationship and affirmed Jim's knowledge that he had found his mate, his partner, his lover, his friend.

It was so easy for him to picture her, enjoying a Saturday afternoon at the ball park, her long raven hair pulled through the back of a blue and white Yankees cap, her slender legs clad in a pair of well-worn jeans; the woman could make an old sweatshirt look good. Try as he might, though, he simply couldn't conjure up the same image of his adjustment to her world, accompanying her to Style Magazine affairs or fashion shows, making polite small talk about a subject he knew absolutely nothing about, had, at least to this point, absolutely no interest in, with a group of people that he had absolutely nothing in common with.

And, yet, unavoidably, he knew he would, if she were to ask. He would make the adjustment to all of the elements of her world that were foreign to him. He was willing to make the sacrifice because her happiness meant that much to him. Any extra effort on his part would be worth it because she was worth it. He could still hear his mother's voice, as clearly as the day she had spoken the words, " If you are lucky enough to find the person you want to spend your life with someday, remember that it's good and bad; you can't know one without the other."

Taking one last swing at the bag before steadying it with his hands, he headed for the locker room and a long, hot shower. The only thing left to him now was to wait and worry, try to control his rampant nerves and ignore that voice in his head.

* * *

The sweet sound of jazz filled the room with its spell, weaving it's magic through the smoky air of their favorite jazz club, the voices of a packed house hushed by its excellence. The sax player blew a softened version of Moon River, the light feather rasp of the brush on the snare and cymbals, the deep tonal notes plucked from the cello strings, the only accompaniment to the smooth timbre of the sax.

She had moved her chair around so that she now occupied a place directly at his side, as close to him as the two chairs would allow. The enjoyment of good music, good jazz especially, was one of those things that they did have in common; she was obviously entranced in its hold right now; her shoulders swayed slightly to the music. On this night, she was nothing short of stunning; her selection of a deep violet satin blouse, a wide line of gold beading edging the plunging vee of the neckline, all served to just further enhance what already Jim considered to be her best attributes. Her hair appeared that much softer, darker, the blue of her beautiful eyes that much deeper.

She turned, caught his gaze and smiled. There was something different in her expression, a softness to her radiant smile, a look that Jim could only interpret as adoration on her face. Her hand found his back and she gently rubbed his shoulder, every once in a while moving up to toy with his hair. That touch, the tenderness of it, the way it could soothe his jangled nerves, the spark it often elicited in him, was something he hoped would never change.

He leaned toward her and they met in a kiss, a little longer, a little more to it than he had anticipated, given that he felt so on display. When he finally let her go and she pulled back, he said softly, "Christie, I think I need a breath of fresh air. Do you want to take a walk?" She smiled and nodded her head in agreement.

He waited while she pulled her jacket from the back of the chair and draped it over her shoulders. He took her hand and led her out through the doors at the back of the bar, to the trellised river front patio. The air was clear and cool, a million stars pinned to the rich black cover of the mid-evening sky. They were alone on the patio, the magnificence of the city skyline spread before them, its image mirrored in the calm waters of the river.

She put one arm around his waist and leaned back against his shoulder, taking in the splendor of the view. He wrapped both arms around her and buried his head against her hair, breathing in the subtle, clean scent of it. It was one of those moments of quiet contentment that he found so compelling.

"Jimmy?" she said softly.

"Hm..." He didn't want to move or to talk. He wanted to savor the peace, the tranquility in his heart, the simple, pure joy of standing there holding her.

"Do you realize that we are all alone out here? "

"I do. That's nice, don't you think?"

"It is." She turned and gave him a long, lingering kiss. "I hope you know how much I adore you, Jim."

"I'm not sure I do. Can you show me again?"

"Stop teasing, Jimmy. I'm serious."

"I am too. I'd like you to show me again." This time he reached down and cradled her beautiful face between his hands. There was a gentle passion to this kiss, it was long and deep.

"Let's sit for a minute okay? I'm not ready to go back in yet." He indicated one of the tables at the far corner of the patio, tucked intimately under the canopy of the ornate trees that edged the patio in decorative pots. He disappeared briefly behind the short serving counter to the side of the patio doors, and returned with a silver champagne bucket, a bottle of Dom Perignon chilling in the ice. A crystal champagne flute was tucked safely in each jacket pocket.

"Jimmy?" She questioned him.

"Ah, no questions, okay? Just sit, please," he said, pulling a chair out for her. He lifted the champagne from the ice and pressed the cork, the explosion of it splitting the silent mood of the patio; they both laughed.

As he poured the champagne, the patio doors swung open and the haunting sound of a single sax, rendering I Don't Want To Walk Without You, echoed into the night air. He could feel the warmth of his emotions filling his heart and bringing a mist to his eyes. This was one time when he would have to fight to suppress that swell of emotion, to make it safely through what he was about to do without giving in to the depth of those feelings. He took one small gulp of champagne, set the flute back on the table and moved to her, pulling her up to stand with him.

Inside, he was shaking; he hoped it wouldn't be reflected in his voice. Clearing his throat just once, he began slowly, quietly, "Christie, you have to know that I love you. I think I fell in love with you the first time I laid eyes on you."

"Jimmy..." He placed his finger gently against her lips to quiet her.

"Let me talk, okay?" There was so much already written in her eyes; he didn't need her words to confirm that what he was feeling was in her heart too. "I know I'm not easy, I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but I think we're good together... I have never been sure of very many things in my life; but I am sure about us, about you. Christie, I want to spend all my days feeling like this, with you."

Tears filled her eyes, her lips trembled. He pulled the small velvet box from his jacket pocket and opened it, revealing the ring, the one he had spent the better part of a day searching for. "Christie, marry me, please? Walk with me for the rest of my days? I can't imagine my life without you in it."

Her tears were now flowing freely. She held out her left hand and he slipped the ring on her finger; he wasn't sure whose hands were shaking more. As it found its place at the base of her ring finger, he felt the first tear trail down his cheek; more would surely follow.

She lifted his face to hers and brushed that tear away. Reflected there, in her eyes, was the love he had been waiting his whole life to find. Through her own tears, she managed, "Yes, Jimmy, I will marry you."


	15. Chapter 15

1**Before There Was Darkness LongLashes1**

**Part Fifteen**

It was teeming rain, cold, heavy torrents of rain that, were they delivered in a solitary act of mother nature, would have ensured traveling conditions couldn't be any more miserable. But, this morning, as if to compound that misery, the rain was driven by the lashing winds of an unexpected cold front, sweeping in across the city from the east. It bounced off the roadway, ricocheted off the hood of the car and flowed in swift currents down the windshield. The steady, metrical slap of the wipers, positioned on the highest setting, was useless against the onslaught.

Jim strained forward in the driver's seat in a desperate attempt to follow the curve of the asphalt, both hands on the wheel, his knuckles white from the exertion of trying to maintain his lane, battling a stiffening wind that seemed intent on blowing the car off the road. The white line, the one thing he should have been able to rely on, a beacon to guide him, was lost to the sea of gray shrouding the car. He shot a quick glance sideways at Christie, sitting silently, nervously, in the passenger seat, idly twisting her engagement ring round and round with her right hand, her eyes also focused on trying to maintain sight of the road ahead.

"Hey, Baby," Jim said, searching for a sign, anything to indicate an exit, "I'm going to pull over for a few minutes and see if this rain doesn't let up a bit. Honestly, I'm driving blind. I can't see a thing."

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Good idea. If we're where I think we are, there should be a rest area coming up soon. It's not going to be much of a weekend in the Hamptons if it stays like this. I checked the weather yesterday; they didn't say anything about this, they said a chance of rain."

"It was obviously a really good chance," he joked. She didn't look amused. "Hey, don't worry about it, okay? I love the rain; I just don't like driving in it, not when it's like this." Grinning, he added, "But I can think of a few things we can do to stay occupied if it doesn't let up."

"Jimmy, you're terrible. At my parent's house?" she shot back, teasingly.

"I'll be quiet, promise! You on the other hand…"

She swatted his arm. "You deserved that."

The day had started out on such a positive note. When he had finally given in to the reveille of the alarm clock and dragged himself to a sitting position, he could hear her humming in the kitchen. Meeting him in the hallway, she held out a mug of steaming coffee.

"Oh, you're up," she said brightly.

"Good morning." He kissed her tenderly on the cheek. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"Because you're the one who has to drive. And, after the late night you put in last night, I thought you could use the extra shut-eye." He followed her back to the bedroom, perching himself on the corner of the bed, watching as she ran through her mental list of four days of necessities for a trip out of town. Her suitcase already held twice as much as his; a symptom, he was sure, of her seemingly constant need to look her absolute best.

"Did you pack a jacket or a sport coat? I'm sure we'll go for dinner at least once this weekend."

"Not yet, but I will. Don't worry."

"So, other than that, what's left to do?" she asked, placing the last of her clothes into the suitcase and zipping it up.

"I'll finish my coffee, grab a quick shower, throw the rest of my things into the suitcase and we're good to go. Unless," he said, reaching out and pulling her to him, burying his face against the softness of her silk pajamas, "I can convince you that another hour or so won't make a difference, one way or the other."

"Sounds tempting, Detective, believe me. And I might consider taking you up on that offer, but I am so ready to get out of here and get this weekend started." She leaned down and kissed him before wrestling herself out of his grasp.

"Alright," he said, feigning disappointment, "give me 15 minutes. I'll be ready."

"Oh, I can't wait, Jimmy. This is going to be fun," she said, her expression replete with excitement.

He understood that excitement, wanted desperately to feel it too, for her sake, to share in her enthusiasm, but four days with his potential in-laws wasn't an event he was particularly looking forward to. He felt trapped, committed, forced into something he wasn't the least bit ready to face. At the same time, he also accepted that there was absolutely no sense in putting off the inevitable. This meeting would happen, one way or the other; it had to since there was now absolutely no doubt about her importance in his life. After a great deal of talking on her part, convincing him that this was something they needed to do, sooner rather than later, and some wrangling with the work schedule, he had finally given in and agreed to spend the Thanksgiving holiday in the Hamptons, with her family.

The sign for the exit loomed eerily out of the fog. He flipped up the turn signal and eased the car over, pulling safely into the rest area. Shutting off the engine, he unfastened his seatbelt and leaned back against the door. A distant, dull throb was just beginning to emanate from the base of his skull; his eyes were already tired. He closed them and rubbed his hand deliberately across his brow.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I feel a headache coming on, though. A big one."

"Is it any wonder? God, I hope this lets up." She looked longingly out the window. There was absolutely nothing to see, everything around them lost to the weather.

Tilting his seat back, he stretched his long frame out as comfortably as the cramped space would permit and turned to her. "Hey, can I ask you something? And don't go getting defensive on me, okay? Why are we staying at your parent's house? Couldn't we have found a room somewhere?"

"Come on, Jimmy. They want us there, with them this weekend, to have some time to get to know you. After all, you are marrying their little girl. And, with your job and the hours you seem to keep, who knows when we might have another opportunity like this?"

That much was true. Occasions like this, where he could take a break and breathe, were few and far between.

"But, you have to know that I find situations like this just a little uncomfortable."

"I know you do," she said softly, "but these people are going to be your in-laws, Jimmy. You're going to have to figure out a way to get comfortable with them at some point in time; may as well start now."

"Alright, alright, but if I'm going to survive at all this weekend, you have to help me out here so I know what I'm up against, okay?"

"So, where do you want to start?"

"Your Mom?"

"Lillian, remember? She's an artist, at least she thinks she is. Loves to garden, golf and play bridge. She's a philanthropist, everyone's friend. There isn't anything she wouldn't do for you. People say I look just like her."

He smiled. If that were true, he would have an idea of what Christie might look like thirty years down the road. "And your sister? Older?"

"Erica. Two years older than me, looks more like Daddy, a free spirit, a wanderer, working on her Ph.D., slowly, though, still searching for what it is she wants to be when she grows up. I'm certainly not expecting her to figure that out anytime soon!" She leaned over, turned his face to hers and smiled. "But, I have absolutely no doubt she will love you, Jimmy."

"If you say so."

"Oh, I know so."

"And, your Dad, Stewart, right?" She nodded. "He's in advertising?"

She nodded again, but there was something odd in her expression; he read it immediately. "Alright, Christie. Out with it. What have you been keeping from me?"

"Nothing, it's just that I may have omitted a little detail or two."

He looked puzzled. "Like what? Come on, spill."

"It's true, my Dad is in advertising." She hesitated. "Actually, some say that he is advertising. Have you heard of Sullivan and Hooks?"

"Yeah, but who hasn't?" The realization of what she had just said suddenly dawned on him. There was nothing he could do to mask the shock in his voice or, he was sure, the expression on his face. "Jesus Christ, Christie, you're that Sullivan?"

"No, Jim." she said firmly, "My Dad is that Sullivan. I just happen to be his daughter."

"And when you say you grew up in the Hamptons, what are we talking about here? Not one of those nice little summer homes that line the main street, I'm sure."

"No, it's not, Jimmy. But what difference does that make? I'm no more responsible for that than you are for your roots."

"It might make a huge difference. God, Christie, think about it. How the hell are they going to feel about you being engaged to a guy from Red Hook? A cop at that? I'm sure that's not quite what your Daddy had in mind for you."

"Jimmy, please." She reached over and took his hand. "I am sure that what he had in mind for me was for me to be happy. And you make me so happy; that's all that matters."

"Maybe to you…" His voice trailed off. When he spoke again, there was an edge to it. "You could have told me all of this a long time ago."

Her voice was quiet in response. "I know. And maybe I should have, but I never judged you based on where you came from. I don't think you're being very fair."

"Fair? This is not the same thing."

It was her turn to sound defensive. "Why, Jimmy? What makes this so different? Explain that to me, please?"

He wished he could take this conversation in a different direction but with those deep-seeded insecurities brought so quickly to the forefront, who he was, where he came from, his measure of self-worth, all of it a manifestation of being put down more often than lifted by the words of the one man who should have so positively influenced his life, it was too late; there was no way to back down now.

"It just is, okay? Christie, you know I don't come from the all-American family or a background I can talk about openly. How the hell am I supposed to answer the kind of questions they are bound to ask?"

"You answer them honestly, Jimmy, that's how. God, you are so damn stubborn. And it's not that you can't talk about it; you won't."

"No, Christie, I can't," he said, decisively. "You of all people should understand that. If that's what is going to be expected of me this weekend, then maybe I should turn this car around right now, because I am not about to sit through four days of hell so your parents can satisfy themselves that I am not at all what they had in mind for a son-in-law."

"I don't believe this, Jimmy. How dare you walk into their home with a preconceived notion of them and what they will or won't think of you. You're not even going to give this, or them, a chance, are you? You've already got it all figured out. But I'll tell you what, James Dunbar, if anyone is being unreasonable about all of this, it's you."

"Am I really, Christie? You think about it and then you tell me how I'm supposed to live up to all of those expectations."

"Jimmy, please."

He held up both hands, dismissing her instantly. "This conversation is over. God, I have to get out here, I need some space," he said, his anger on the verge of boiling over. Before she could say anything else, he snapped his seat upright and threw the car door open.

"Jimmy, don't, please…" but it was too late; he slammed it shut and disappeared into the fog and the driving rain.


	16. Chapter 16

1**Before There Was Darkness **

**Part Sixteen**

He wasn't entirely sure how much distance he'd put between himself and the car. The necessity to breathe, to clear his head and attempt to regain some semblance of control had carried him as far from there as possible. As in every other instance he could remember when faced with potential confrontation, he'd done as he always had; he'd run. This time, though, there was no escaping; confrontation was waiting for him, demanding that he revisit those memories he had long ago shoved to that place so deep within himself.

Standing in the unrelenting rain, his body convulsed with a violent bout of shivers, he was suddenly humbled by the realization of what had just transpired. Years of suppressed rage flooded through him, erupting finally to the surface where it manifested itself in unexpected, hot tears that seemed intent on flushing out every ounce of anger, frustration, disappointment and pride. It shocked him that they had come so easily, without warning; he hadn't felt them. Once begun, he wasn't sure he would be able to make them stop.

How was it that one man, a man who knew so little of his eldest son, could still, after all these years, so aptly define how that son perceived himself? Jim had resolved long ago that nothing of his relationship with that man would prevent him from taking pride in who he was and what he had accomplished. Yet, when confronted with a situation that might demand just that, a response to his own self-worth, he couldn't seem to journey past those feelings of abasement.

Today, she had told him to answer honestly, somehow expecting that he would address those questions about his past. It had overwhelmed him; he wasn't sure how or if he could. How could he share those memories with anyone, openly and freely, given that they made him feel so small, so unworthy of anything good? He'd never talked about them before, never shared them, not even with his mother. Those moments, the most hurtful moments were borne in silence; they were his and his alone.

He recognized that nothing could be solved standing here alone, in the pouring rain; he had to go back and face her, try to answer the questions he knew she would undoubtedly have. He drew the sleeves of his jacket across his eyes, attempting to eliminate any evidence of his brief loss of control. Pulling a long breath of cold air deep into his chest, he exhaled slowly, and repeated, in, out, once, twice and again until the shaking, like the anger, was all but gone, his composure almost intact.

He heard her calling his name, long before he could see her through the fog that still held the rest of the world in its steely grasp. "Jimmy? Where are you? Jimmy?"

Clearing his throat, hoping the rawness he felt there wouldn't betray him, he answered her call. "Yeah, here, Christie. I'm here."

He saw her approaching, her pale blue raincoat cinched tightly at her waist, the collar turned high on her neck, a colorful golf umbrella shielding her from the misery of the unforgiving rain. He smiled wryly. At least she'd had sense enough to come prepared for the elements. She reached out and touched him gently on the shoulder, imploring him to look at her. "Hey."

"Hey," he said absently, no hint of emotion in his voice. With the redness of her eyes and the tearstains that streaked her otherwise perfect make-up, it was undeniable that his had not been the only tears shed.

"Look at you, Jimmy. We need to get you to the car and get the heat going." She took his arm to lead him back.

He pulled away and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "Please don't do that."

"What am I doing? I'm just trying to help you."

"Well don't, okay, I don't need your help. I'm fine."

"Oh, God, Jimmy, why do you have to be so damn stubborn? You are obviously not fine, you're wet and cold and if we don't get you out of this weather and into some dry clothes and some heat, you're going to spend the rest of this weekend sick in bed."

"Christie," he held up one hand, motioning for her to stop. "Don't do that." His tone was quiet but firm.

Exasperation filled her voice. "What now?"

"Don't stand there and act like nothing just happened."

"No, you're right, Jimmy, you're right. Something did happen and we need to talk about it. But not here, okay? Let's go; we can talk about it in the car." He turned and walked ahead, refusing her offer to shield him with the umbrella.

She'd already laid a change of dry clothes neatly across the backseat. He stripped out of the wet ones and slid into the comfort and warmth of a heavy sweatshirt and jeans. With the heat circulating through the car, and the change of clothes, he felt the chill slowly release him. He shuddered just once.

The silence between them was thick and uncomfortable, not like those other occasions when there was absolutely no need to say anything. This time something needed to be said yet neither of them seemed willing to break that silence. She was the first.

"I'd like to know what just happened, Jimmy."

He glanced at her, at the longing in her eyes, and still he couldn't bring himself to answer, not fully.

"I think you already do. Talking about it isn't going to change the way things are."

"I need you to tell me, Jimmy. You tell me how things are. Why did you run?"

"Christie, you have absolutely no idea. You can't even begin to understand."

"No, you're right. But it's not because I don't want to. It's because you won't let me in. I've asked, I've waited, and you keep closing that door, Jimmy. You leave me standing outside, looking in."

He turned to face her. She touched his cheek, her hand tenderly brushing his mouth. There was sadness in her eyes; he knew he was responsible for it.

Softly she said, "Try, please? I'd like to know and not because it's going to make any difference one way or the other, just that it might help me understand things, understand you, a little better than I do right now."

He sighed deeply. "This isn't easy."

"I know I know," she said soothingly, "but you have to start somewhere Jimmy. And I'm here, I'm not going anywhere." She laced his fingers with her own.

"I'm not sure I can explain how hard it was growing up with a father like that." He paused and laughed quietly, bitterly. "Jesus, who the hell am I trying to kid? He was never a father; he was a drunk."

He stopped and put his hand to his mouth, holding his finger tightly against his lip, trying to slow a tremble that hadn't yet begun. "I honestly thought I was done with him, that I'd buried those memories along with him a long time ago." He shrugged his shoulders. "But then something happens and he's right back in my head."

"Jimmy, he didn't beat you did he?"

He shook his head. "No, not like that."

His father had never actually hit him, but it hadn't taken physical violence to inflict the scars that Jim still bore half a lifetime later. The pain of the words, the depth of the hurt, the lasting effect it had on him was more than if those fists had flown. He often wished they had, that the man had hit him, so he could have fought back. His words were useless, meaningless, lost on ears that had shut him out a little more with each belt from the bottle.

He shook his head again. "He never laid a hand on me, Christie. He didn't need to; there was absolutely no way to fight back against the shame in his words or the disgust in his voice. He hated me, blamed me for everything that was wrong with his life. Whether the bottle was half empty or half full, it was all my fault."

She was quiet, contemplative, this admission seeming to take a minute to sink in fully. He watched a tear slip down her cheek; she brushed it away. "God, Jimmy, I had no idea. But you can't carry take with you. You need to find a way to leave it behind. That was a lifetime ago and you don't live in that one anymore."

He smiled faintly. "Oh, I wish it were that simple…."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Why isn't it? Why can't it be? He's not here anymore and you have to know that those words aren't true now. They weren't true then."

"But that's not the point, Christie. The point is that as soon as someone asks me a question about where I come from, it's all right there again. That's something I'll never be able to let go of. It's who I am."

"No, Jimmy, it's who he was. You may have the same last name but you're not him. If that's what it was like for you as a child, you have even more to be proud of. Look how far you've come." She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "You're not an easy man, Jimmy Dunbar. But it's easy to love you, faults and all, and I do; I always will."

"And..." he hesitated, "And what if your parents don't?"

"Is that what this is really all about? Because if it is, I need you to know that it doesn't matter. There is nothing they can say or do that's going to change my mind. If they love me, they'll accept you."

"Are you sure, Christie? Are you really willing to give up one for the other? Because that may be what it's going to take."

She tried to keep her frustration in check. "There you go again. You think you've already got it all figured out. But I'm asking you, please give them a chance to get to know you before you make up their minds for them?"

"I'll try, okay? That's the best I can do for now."

"Then that's just going to have to do. And I have no doubt, Jimmy, that when they see how important you are to me, they're going to love you, as much as I do." Her arms encircled him and she drew him as close as the bucket seats would allow. "Okay?"

With her reassurance came the realization that while it was true, perhaps, that she had held back a piece of information, key to his understanding of who she was and what kind of background she came from, it ultimately made no difference as to how he felt about her. It never would. More importantly, though, he realized that she had done absolutely nothing to deserve what he had thrown into her lap.

"Okay, then." He patted her leg and flashed her what he hoped was a confident smile. "Let's get this show back on the road."

He turned the key and wheeled the car back onto the freeway, just as the first finger of sun knifed its way through the dispersing fog.


	17. Chapter 17

Before There Was Darkness

**Part Seventeen**

There was nothing gentle about the wind. It churned the deep water into heaving swells that battered the private expanse of sandy beach fronting the well-manicured grounds of the property the Sullivan's called home.

The house itself was welcoming, weathered cedar shakes and pale gray stone, a white columned seasonal porch wrapping its perimeter, and windows, so many arched, leaded windows that took full advantage of the pristine beauty of its secluded setting. Although it was substantial, sprawling in multi-level wings from a central vestibule, it wasn't quite as lavish as Jim had originally imagined it to be. But there was no denying that living like this, in this location, with the private tennis courts, the pool and the black Rolls Royce parked outside the five-car garage, was the by-product of money, lots of money.

Stepping from his own car, he leaned against the door and stretched his cramped neck and back, drawing in a cleansing breath of air, fresh with the salty aroma of the sea. He exhaled slowly, closed his eyes and tilted his head back to feel the warmth of the sun on his face.

Christie came around the open door and laid her hand on his shoulder, gently massaging the tension from his muscles. "Everything okay, Jimmy?"

Nothing more had been mentioned about the unexpected detour their journey had taken earlier in the day. The rest of the drive had passed by uneventfully, except for the occasional wind gust that seemed to raise the car from its solid contact with the road. They had shared light conversation, laughter and, apart from those occasions when he had to pull away to fight the elements, she had maintained ownership of his hand; he had gladly relinquished it to her.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Looking over at her, one eye still closed, he sighed. "That was a tough drive and I'm not so sure I'm ready for what comes next." Pulling her close, he buried his cheek against her hair and whispered, "I'm sorry, Christie, for earlier."

"Shhhhh. We're done with that, okay?" She kissed him, then reached up to rub the telltale lipstick from his face. Taking his arm, she smiled. "Come on, I think we need to go in. They've probably already seen us drive up."

This time, he didn't pull back. "Alright, then, lead the way."

* * *

"Christine. You look so good, dear." Her mother enveloped her in a loving embrace and planted a kiss on the cheek of her youngest daughter.

Lillian Sullivan was, as Christie had hinted, the spitting image of what she might look like 30 years down the road. Her hair was salt and peppered, cut in a short, face-framing style that complimented her still youthful features. She was beautiful, slender, impeccably dressed, or as Jim noted, expensively dressed, another characteristic she and Christie obviously shared. She turned and looked at Jim through the same blue gray eyes as her daughter, smiling as she sized him up.

"And this must be your Jim. I am so glad to welcome you to our home." She hugged him warmly. "And to the family I guess?"

"Thank you. It's nice to finally meet you, Mrs. Sullivan," he said, returning her embrace.

"Oh, Lillian, please. Everyone calls me Lillian. Let's not stand here in ceremony. Come in, please." She motioned to the central hallway. "I've got fresh, hot cider brewing in the kitchen." Jim trailed behind, following the rhythmic clicking of two pair of high heels on the polished marble floors.

Taking a seat at the breakfast bar separating the immaculate kitchen from a casual eating room, Christie patted the stool next to hers for Jim to sit

"Where's Daddy?"

"He had to go to the Club for a while but he should be along anytime now. He's really looking forward to having both his girls home again." Lillian pulled heavy crystal mugs from an overhead cupboard and dropped a cinnamon stick in each. "By the way, your sister is at the Cromwell's; Jake's home for the weekend. I'm sure you know how much your father would love to see the two of them finally get together."

"Oh," Christie said. In response to the puzzled look Jim knew must have been written in his expression, she added, "And it's not just Daddy, I know you'd love it too, Mom. They've been on again and off again since they were sixteen. But, now that Jake's finally settled successfully into his career, I'm sure they're really hoping Erica might decide to follow suit. It's not like Jake hasn't asked."

"Yes, he's made quite a name for himself in the law community, the firm's youngest junior partner ever."

Christie shot a stern glance in her mother's direction and discretely shook her head. "It helps, of course, when your grandfather started the firm."

"Still, dear, he didn't get there based on name alone. He's brilliant, just the kind of man we'd like to see Erica settle down with. Couldn't ask for anyone better." She passed one of the mugs to Jim. "And you're with the NYPD, is that right Jim?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm a Detective with the Eleventh Precinct."

"Lillian, please. That's an admirable job. But is there much of a future in that?"

"I guess that depends on what you mean by a future. I enjoy what I do and I don't see that changing anytime soon."

"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it." She reached out and patted his hand. " I just wondered if there was the possibility of moving up in the ranks someday."

"If I chose to, I imagine there might be. But like I said, I enjoy what I do." Christie smiled and wrapped her arm protectively around him.

"Well, I guess that's important too," Lillian said, not missing a beat. "If one must work, I guess one may as well enjoy what they do."

Christie glanced at Jim, a hint of regret in her eyes. "Jimmy, I think we should go get the luggage and settle in before everyone gets back. If you want to rest for a bit, now might be the time to do it."

Lillian turned to her daughter. "Oh, we've got Jim in the blue room, and you're in your old room, dear."

The response from Christie surprised him. "Mother," she said, sweetly, "if it's all the same to you, one room will be fine. Jim, we'll take the blue room. The view of the ocean is spectacular."

Stepping onto the porch, he sighed deeply. Christie took his hands and turned him to face her. "Jimmy, I'm sorry. I know what she comes across like, but I don't think she meant anything by it."

"It's okay, Christie, really. I don't suppose she's used to carrying on a conversation with someone like me. And I don't mean anything by that." He patted her firmly on the behind. "Let's get those suitcases and check into the blue room."

It was, exactly that, undeniably blue, not soft baby blue or bright robin's egg blue, but a dark, regal midnight blue. An expansive four-poster bed, graced by rows of plump brocade pillows dominated one wall. Comfortable wing back chairs in a complimentary, masculine plaid of deep blues and greens were placed strategically to take full advantage of the large stone fireplace on the opposite wall. In spite of its size and color, the room was warm and inviting.

"Do all the rooms in this house have a name?" Jim asked, setting his suitcase down on the antique trunk at the foot of the bed.

"No, just this one." Christie laughed. " I don't know whatever possessed her to do it. I think it was one of those moments of sudden inspiration. Thank God it didn't go any further. The rest of the rooms up here are actually quite normal."

Jim surveyed their surroundings and nodded. "I like this, though. Gives it character. Promise me, when we have our own place, you won't be afraid to experiment with some color."

"Only if you promise you won't ask me to paint anything midnight blue," she threw back.

"Deal!" He strolled to the double french doors leading to a private balcony,offering, as Christie had suggested, a spectacular view. "Come here," he said quietly, holding his arms open.

She melted into his embrace and they stood wrapped together, savoring the calm of the scene spread before them. The setting sun blazed an eternal path of glistening gold that sliced through the water and danced on the peak of each crested wave. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the water, swelling and rolling gently under the subsiding wind. With Christie tucked safely in his arms, he was once again awed by an overwhelming sense of peace.

She shifted slightly, turning her attention to the clock on the fireplace mantle. "Oh, Jimmy, I hate to ruin a good thing, but I think we should head downstairs. If Daddy isn't home yet, he will be any time now. He knows dinner is served at 7:00 sharp, always has been, always will be."

"Then we better go. I'd hate to start off on the wrong foot with your father." Giving her one last squeeze before releasing her, he asked hopefully, "Hey, can we continue this later?"

* * *

Knocking softly on the library door, Christie called to her father. "Daddy, are you in there?"

The door swung open and Jim caught his first glance of Stewart Sullivan; thick, grey hair, weathered skin, deep tan, looking for all the world like someone who had spent far too much time in the sun, light blue eyes accented by deep laugh lines. Although he was casually dressed in light pleated pants, a striped button down shirt and grey sports jacket, there was no doubt that the clothes were designer and expensive. He was far less imposing than Jim had suspected, but the nerves that had crept in were no less relieved by this observance.

Stewart Sullivan pulled his daughter to him. "It's so good to have you here, Kitten."

"It's nice to be home too, Daddy." She motioned for Jim to join her. Taking his hand, she turned to her father. "I'd like you to meet someone, Daddy. This is ...".

"No need, no need," he said, giving Jim's hand a generous shake. " This must be the man who wants to marry my little girl." He stood shorter than Jim by a good four inches and was not nearly as solidly built, but his grip was strong and secure. "James, Jim, what do we call you?"

"Jim will be fine, sir."

"Then Jim it is." He wagged a finger at him. "You and I have a lot to talk about, and we will. Please, sit," he said, motioning to an over-sized leather couch. "We've got a little time before your Mother will be calling. So, Kitten, how's life in the big City? Work still treating you well?"

"Yes, it's fine, Daddy. But let's not talk about work, okay? Not this weekend."

"You're right, you're right. I guess I miss it more than I thought I would. Retirement's great, but there's only so much golfa mancan play. And with the lousy weather this summer I didn't get out on the boat as much as I would have liked. Do you sail, Jim?"

"No, sir, I've never had an opportunity to."

"Oh, that's too bad. Jake Cromwell's already agreed to crew the regattas for me next summer. Now there's a sailor, it's in his blood.Christie loves to sail, don't you Kitten? Was a time I couldn't get her off the boat."

Christie looked at Jim, apologetically. "Used to, Daddy. It's been years, though. I think my sea legs left me a long time ago."

"Well, doesn't matter now, anyway. The boat's already in dry dock for the winter. Maybe next summer. We'll get you out on the water then." Jim shook his head in agreement, and, looking at Christie, raised his eyes to the roof. She stifled a giggle. With a shrug of his chin, he responded, "Sounds good, sir. I'd look forward to that."

"What about golf, Jim? The course is still open. As a matter of fact, Jake and Cy Cromwell and I are planning on playing a round Saturday morning. Can I interest you in making it a foursome?"

Jim cleared his throat lightly. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't golf either."

"Blaspheme. Everyone golfs." He lifted the brandy snifter and drained it. "I guess it'll just be the three of us then." He stood, empty snifter in hand. " If you'll excuse me."

"Well," Jim said, once it was obvious he wasn't coming back, "that went well."


	18. Chapter 18

1**Before There Was Darkness LongLashes1**

**Part Eighteen**

Stewart Sullivan leaned comfortably back into the dark leather sofa, brandy snifter in hand. Jim was relatively certain at this point that where Stewart went, so went that snifter; they never seemed to be very far apart. With Christie in the kitchen, having graciously declined Jim's offer of assistance, he found himself cornered in the library.

"So, my daughter tells me you're with the NYPD, a detective? Just what is it that you detect?"

Jim cleared his throat, something he often did when he was particularly nervous. Stewart Sullivan made him nervous. "Homicides, sir."

"If we are going to carry on with this conversation, please drop the sir, son. I'm not that formal. The name is Stewart." He took a deep pull from a cigar that had been smoldering in a marble tray on the occasional table, filling the room with its pungent aroma. Exhaling a succession of perfectly round smoke rings, something that obviously came with practice, he waved the stogie toward Jim. "Sure I can't offer you one of these? Nothing better after a dinner like that then a good cigar and a good glass of brandy. And, as I have discovered through the years, nothing better before, either."

Shaking his head, Jim smiled. "No, thank you, sir…Stewart. I don't smoke."

Taking another pull before returning it to its resting place, Mr. Sullivan sighed, "Ah, but this isn't smoking, Jim. This is pleasure. There's a difference you know. You might actually like it."

"I'll stick with my beer," he said, raising the bottle in mock toast. "Thanks, though."

"Have it your way. So, homicide you say? Do you find that a satisfying job?"

"I do," he responded with measurable pride. 'I like a good chase, putting the pieces together."

"Can't begin to pretend I'd have the stomach for a job like that. Must feel good, though, when you finally get the bugger."

Jim smiled at Stewart's choice of descriptive, nodding in agreement. "No doubt."

"So, have you ever given any thought to doing something different? I would think that gets old in a hurry."

Jim shrugged and shook his head. "Not really, I've never had occasion to. Fact of the matter is I like what I do."

"Well, that's a good thing, I guess. I can't say advertising was ever really my passion, but I grew to like it over time. And, as you can see," he said, indicating the finer appointments of the library, " it was very good to me. I know for a fact, though, they don't pay you boys near enough. That's got to give you some incentive to expand your horizons, look at other options?"

"That may be true, sir. But, I learned a long time ago, money isn't everything."

Stewart let out a hearty laugh. "You're talking to the wrong guy here, Jim."

Not sure what his response should be, Jim let the silence hang between them. He did not want to get drawn into a discussion about the merits of money or lack thereof.

"Listen, Jim" Stewart offered, " if you ever tire of police work, I've got connections in just about every business known to man. I'd be happy to see if we couldn't get you into something that paid a little better."

"That's kind of you, sir," Jim answered, attempting to imply a degree of gratitude. "But I just can't see myself doing anything else with my life." He shrugged his shoulders decisively. "This is who I am; this is what I do."

"Police work is a good and honorable profession, there's no question about that. But, where I do have a question, speaking only as Christie's father, is whether my daughter is going to be happy." He paused, swilling the brandy around the bottom of the snifter before taking a drink. "I don't mean you any disrespect here, Jim, but I am quite sure you know my daughter is used to a certain lifestyle."

"Yes, sir," Jim replied stiffly, "that is very apparent to me. And I don't mean you any disrespect here either, sir, but I believe what is important is that we love each other. I don't believe the size of my bank account has anything to do with whether she'll be happy."

"Ah, that's young love talking, Jim. And, as we all know, that can be a very fleeting thing."

"As can money, Mr. Sullivan."

Stewart laughed again, a deep rich laugh. "Point well taken, young man. Point well taken." He raised his glass in toast and drained it dry. "Can I get you another beer?"

"No, thank you. I'm good."

"Well, if you don't mind, I need a refill." Empty snifter in hand, he lifted himself from the couch and strolled to the rich wood cabinets gracing the wall from floor to ceiling behind Jim's chair. "So, Jim, it does appear you and I have something in common after all."

"And what is that, Stewart?"

"We both love my daughter." Turning from the bar, he laid a hand on Jim's shoulder. "In your case, I just hope that's enough."

* * *

He found Christie, curled up in the luxury of the pillowed window seat spanning the immense bay of the casual nook. The embers of a dying fire cast a soft glow across the polished marble floor, adding an impression of homey warmth to the room. Whatever it was she was reading, she was deeply absorbed in it. Jim stood quietly in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, captivated, watching the change in her expression, the furrow of her brow, the purse of her lips. Running an absent hand across her chin, she sighed, then reached up to push an errant strand of hair from her face. 

"Hey..." he called softly, not wanting to disturb her but overcome by the sudden need to. "You alone?"

"Hey." She looked up and smiled, marked her page and laid the book down. "Yeah, Mom retired for the night a little while ago, but I thought I'd wait here for you." She beckoned him with her finger. "Come here. I've missed you."

He went to her and kissed her gently. "Thanks--for waiting I mean."

So," she said, hopefully, "how did it go?"

Jim shrugged. "I'm not sure, really. It was, ah…it was interesting. I think that's the best way to describe it. I'm still here, though."

"That's something, Jimmy," Christie said, teasing him. "No one has ever made it through the initial interrogation with Daddy before today. Why do you think I'm still single?"

Grinning, he said, "I'm not even going to try to touch that one." Taking her hands, he pulled her up to stand with him and wrapped her in his embrace. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

"What? Now? Jimmy it's so late."

"Yeah, I know, but I need to get some air. Are you coming?" She nodded and followed him upstairs to grab a jacket.

A light breeze blew in over the ocean, playing nonchalantly with the trees and grasses lining the path from the main house to the beachfront. It was clear and cold, the air abnormally dry for a late November evening. The moon, full and bright, cast a rich glow across the dark ocean waters, blazing a silver thread to that place where sky and waters finally meet.

Jim dropped to the sand, stretched out his long legs and pulled Christie into his lap. Wrapping his jacket around her, he held her close, and breathed in the sanctity of the moment, the quiet peacefulness of his surroundings. Something about that earlier conversation with Stewart was bothering him. Any effort on his part, to pass it off and take solace in his own knowledge of the strength of their relationship, was met by the same lingering doubt. He couldn't seem to journey past the tiny seed that had been so artfully planted.

"Can I ask you something, Christie, and be honest with me, okay?"

She nodded. "Always, Jimmy. What is it?"

"I need to know something...," he hesitated. "Is this really going to work, you and me?"

She pulled away slightly, and turned to gaze at him. "Where the hell did that come from?" Something in his expression must have provided her the only clue she needed. "Oh, God, Jimmy, what did he say?"

He shook his head. "Nothing, Christie, really, we were just talking."

"Jimmy...please. I know he said something; he had to. That didn't just come up clear out of the blue."

A rueful smile crossed his face. "I think your Dad's worried that I won't be able to provide for you, at least not in a manner you're accustomed to. And, the truth is, he's right. I'm a cop, Christie; we won't ever be rich, I can guarantee you that."

The expression in her eyes was as fierce as the tone of her voice. "And you think any of this is important to me?"

"Your father seems to think it is," he said quietly.

"Oh, Jimmy. Look at me, please." She turned on his lap to face him, her hands resting possessively on his shoulders. "I'm sorry Daddy said anything that would make you doubt us. I wouldn't change anything about you. Well, okay, maybe there are a couple of things..." she grinned. "But I love you, Jimmy, just you, and there is nothing I want more than to start my life with you, from the ground floor up, not the penthouse down."

He couldn't help but laugh. "Well, since you put it that way..."

She laughed too. "I do." Taking a page from his book, she reached around and swatted him. Lifting herself from his lap, she stood and held out her hand.

"Now, Detective Dunbar, take me back to the house, please. You're going to need to rest up. Tomorrow isn't going to be easy."

He pulled himself up and stopped to brush the last traces of sand from his pants, disposing of that nagging little doubt along with it.

Taking her hand, he turned and grinned. "I think I'm finally starting to realize that nothing with you ever is."


	19. Chapter 19

11**Before There Was Darkness Longlashes**

**Part Nineteen**

"Jimmy, come on, we're late!" Christie called, exasperation filling her voice.

He opened the bathroom door just a fraction and peered out from behind it, a thick layer of shaving cream veiling the right side of his face. "Give me a couple of minutes, okay? I'll make it as fast as I can. Hey, is that what you're wearing?"

"Yes, why? Is it okay?" Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she smoothed the lace bodice of a rich chocolate silk blouse. Paired with a coordinating silk pencil skirt, tailor made for her slender figure, a delicate gold chain belt cinched around her tiny waist, she was the picture of elegance.

"It's better than that," he said, proudly. "You look beautiful. But, I'm afraid we're going to be a little mismatched today…in more ways than one."

She smiled. "Don't you worry about a thing, James Dunbar. I am not about to throw you to the wolves. Now, go," she pleaded, shooing him back into the bathroom and closing the door, "before Mother is up here, wondering what's keeping us. In case you haven't noticed, she's all about the schedule."

"Alright, alright, I'm going…"

* * *

The main house of the Southampton Country Club was a grand old dame, perched proudly on a grassy knoll, an interminable view of her picturesque surroundings, the charming seaside towns of eastern Long Island nestled at her feet. A palatial two-story structure, she was whitewashed to perfection, lustrous in spite of the gloom of the overcast skies. Gloss black shutters adorned the towering windows gracing her elegant facade,an expansive porte-cochere and broad stairs leading to a pair of solid oak doors welcoming members and guests alike to enter her opulent interior.

Leaning against the dark mahogany bar of the informal lounge, a cold Heineken in hand, Jim had never felt more out of place. Conversation floated around him, filling the air with the din of voices, thick as the spicy aroma wafting from the designated cigar bar to the right of the lounge. Stewart had begged his pardon on arrival and disappeared there, detouring briefly to collect his companion brandy. Quietly excusing herself from their company, Lillian was now surrounded by a circle of chic, well-dressed women at the opposite end of the room, leaving Christie and Jim to their own devices.

Weaving their way to a quiet corner of the crowded room had given occasion to meet many of the gathering throng, dear friends of the Sullivan family, Stewart and Lillian's age, people who had known Christie since birth, people Jim knew would soon be forgotten, if only for the overwhelming number of them. The small talk had been polite at best, his introduction acknowledged by a handshake or a brief nod of the head, congratulations offered with modest sincerity. Beyond that, though, they had not yet found themselves drawn into the fold of the social circles mingling around them; he preferred it that way.

An older woman, shrill of voice, her body perfectly plump and her snow-white hair perfectly coiffed, bustled across the room and threw her arms earnestly around Christie's neck. "Christine, darling, you look wonderful! More like that beautiful mother of yours each time I see you!"

"Mitzi, it's nice to see you," she managed, her voice muffled by the pudgy shoulder that seemed intent on smothering her.

"My, my, my, dear, city life seems to agree with you. Or," she said, gazing over Christie's shoulder at Jim, "is there something else we can credit this to?" She winked and Jim smiled, hoping what he felt on his face appeared sincere enough, waiting for yet another introduction to someone he knew he probably wouldn't remember half an hour from now.

"Jimmy, I'd like you to meet Mitzi Cromwell. Mitzi, this is my fiancé, Jim Dunbar."

He nodded and held out his hand. "Mrs. Cromwell," he said, politely.

"It's Mitzi, dear. Fiance, is it?" she said, taking his hand and sizing him up. "Then it is true. Erica mentioned something about that, but I had no idea she was actually serious. There are going to be a lot of broken hearts, Christine. You had those blue bloods lined up and waiting."

Christie smiled broadly and laid a possessive hand on Jim's shoulder. "My dance card's full, Mitzi. I found the one I've been looking for."

"Well, I must admit, he suits you, Christine. What is it they say? Opposites attract?" she tittered. "Guess that much is true." Waving at someone on the other side of the lounge, she declared, "Well, I must be off. It looks like Mrs. Hayden-Smith finally has our drinks. Good to see you again, my dear. Jim, we'll have to talk more at dinner." She sashayed away as quickly as she had arrived.

Jim allowed a heavy sigh to escape, and leaning against the bar, raised the beer and took a long, slow pull from the bottle. The collar of his shirt seemed inordinately tight, his tie hampering his ability to breathe, the gray wool jacket suddenly too warm. He reached up to tug at the knot around his neck.

"Hey, is everything alright?" Christie's hand found his back and gently rubbed his shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he responded, attempting to make it sound even a bit believable. "This is fun."

She squeezed his arm, reassuringly. "Jimmy, I'm sorry. I can't even begin to know what this must be like for you. But," she said, brightly, "you're doing great."

"He suits you, Christine," he said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, that's just Mitzi," she replied, her voice soothing. "You never know what you're going to get with Mrs. Cromwell. Please, try to take it all with a grain of salt, okay?"

He pulled her to him. "I'll try…." he said, meeting her in a quiet kiss.

"Alright, you two, enough of that, especially in such a public place." The voice was warm, the teasing undertone unmistakable. He turned to the voice and found himself face to face with another dark haired, blue-eyed beauty, slender, stylish, this one very much her father's daughter.

"Erica…" Christie said, wrapping her sister in an affectionate embrace. "I was beginning to wonder if we were ever going to lay eyes on you this weekend."

"What? And miss all this?" She responded, gesturing to the scene before them. "No way!" Turning her attention to Jim, she smiled and nudged her sister's arm. "And I certainly wouldn't miss that! Are you going to introduce me?"

"Of course. Jimmy, this is my sister, Erica. Erica, this is Jim."

He held out his hand, "Erica, it's nice to finally meet you."

"Oh, put that damned hand away and get over here," she said, drawing him into an enthusiastic hug. "So, you're the man who thinks he's going to make an honest woman out of my sister?"

"Erica…"

"Christie, I'm teasing. Obviously being engaged is agreeing with you. You look terrific. But," she purred, throwing a quick glance Jim's way, "I can see why. Very nice." He felt the slow burn of embarrassment creeping up from under his shirt collar.

"Oh, he does blush easily, doesn't he?" she teased. "You'll get used to us, Jim. If you plan on joining this family, you're going to have to."

"Speaking of that, where is Jake?" Christie asked, her eyes scanning the growing crowd. "I haven't seen him yet."

"No, and you won't now. He's with Daddy and Cy. I imagine they're talking business and money over one of those horribly smelly things they insist on smoking. You won't see any of them now until dinner, which, come to think of it, is probably just as well."

Christie shot her sister a disapproving glance. "I see that knack for tact hasn't escaped you. So, what's up with you and Jake? You've been spending a lot of time over there this weekend. Anything to tell?"

She sighed and shrugged her shoulders. "God, Christie, what's to tell, really? He kept asking and I kept saying no." She glanced down at her left hand, a hint of regret in her voice. "I wasn't ready and, to tell you the truth, I don't think he was either. But he seems to have settled down now, his career is on track and I'm getting my life in order."

Turning her attention back to Jim, she added for his benefit, "If you ask any of them, Jim, they'll tell you I've been riding free for too many years now. I'm sure Daddy would have cut me off a long time ago if he didn't think it would affect that stellar reputation of his. Anyway, enough of that," she said excitedly, "come on, Chris, you're obviously happy and sure about what you want. So, when? Have you set a date yet or…found your maid of honor?"

"No, we haven't made any firm plans yet. The spring, sometime, I hope and of course I know who I want for my maid of honor, if she says yes."

Erica turned a finger to herself, "Me?" she mouthed. At Christie's confirmation, she threw her arms around her sister. "Yes, absolutely, yes! I'd love to. So, now that we have that settled, what about the rest?"

"We're not sure about anything yet," Jim said, tucking Christie's hand in his. "It's only been a couple of months. We've got time." .

"We've talked about it, a little, though. I think Jim would rather have a quiet, simple wedding in the City, and I'm leaning that way too. I was thinking of the Crystal Pavilion at Tavern on the Green. It's very special to me." She smiled and looked wistfully at Jim; he caught her glance and smiled back, remembering that first date, when the world and his place in it had finally seemed complete.

Erica snorted and shook her head. "Yeah, good luck with that! Are you kidding, Christine? You know Daddy. He's probably been dreaming of this day your entire life. There is no way you are going to get away with some small, quiet wedding and certainly not in the City."

Acutely aware of what his future sister-in-law was implying, Jim looked from Christie to Erica and back again. "And what about…" he hesitated, " and what about what Christie and I want?"

"You're joking, right? In case you haven't noticed yet, Jim, Daddy has a way of getting what he wants."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe he does," he said, clear conviction in his voice, "but not this time."

* * *

Stewart Sullivan stood at the head of table, a crystal wine glass substituting for the usual snifter. Taking his knife, he let it ping gently against the glass.

"Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, if you would grant me a minute of your time, please." At the quieting of the room, he continued. " I would like to propose a toast. This is a day for Thanksgiving, and as a man gifted with good friends, a good life, a good wife, " he said, saluting Lillian, "and two beautiful daughters, I have much to be thankful for." Taking a sip from the glass, he lowered it and grinned. "Mind you, much of that was my own doing, so I guess most of the thanks for that belong to me, right?" This observation was met by laughter and raised glasses.

Settling the guests with a wave of his hand, he continued, "Seriously, though, back to the business at hand. Our eldest daughter Erica has just returned from Paris, her master's degree finally in hand and it looks like she'll be joining the business world after all. It's been a long time coming! Believe me, Lily and I wondered if it was every going to happen, but we are so very proud of her. We always have been." Erica blew an animated kiss toward her father and raised her glass in salute.

"And, my other beautiful daughter, Christine is here this weekend too, ready to move into a new phase in her own life. For those of you who haven't heard yet, my baby is getting married. Now I know we were all hoping she was going to fall for one your boys, one of the fine young men I see in this room today. But, my little girl has always been very sure of what she wants, and it looks like what she wants is one of New York City's finest. So, on behalf of my beautiful wife and I, I would like to welcome him to the family. Looks like we're going to get that son after all! Christie, darling, if you and Jim would stand, please."

Christie smiled at her dad, and squeezed Jim's arm, a look of complete adoration on her face. Taking Jim's hand, she encouraged him to stand with her. As they raised their glasses, a warm round of applause and the clink of glasses echoed around them. " To Christie and Jim." Nodding their appreciation, they drank in toast, and sat again, the awkward moment over. Stewart remained standing.

"And I know Christie wouldn't mind if I said this, so, lastly, to our friends and family gathered here today, I am openly inviting all of you to help us share in the joy of that special day. By God, we're going to have ourselves a wedding." He toasted the room, quietly downed the contents of his glass and took his seat.

Glaring in Stewart's direction, Jim lifted the linen napkin from his lap and dropped it deliberately on his plate. Pushing his chair away from the table, he quietly excused himself and disappeared through the solid oak doors at the end of the grand hall, a defined purpose to his stride.

Alone with his thoughts, the din of the society crowd confined safely behind those doors, he breathed in the damp sea air and counted backward, tensing and untensing his fingers, trying to find some measure of calm; he didn't feel calm.

"Jimmy?" He hadn't heard her approach and he didn't turn to face her. "Are you okay?" she said, quietly. He thought he detected a measure of penitence in her voice and in the hesitant touch of her hand on his back.

"No, Christie, I am not okay. Of all the pompous, arrogant..." he said, trying to mask the fury in his voice. Pulling his hands briskly through his hair, he shook his head. "Jesus Christ, Christie, is that all these people have to think about? Plan their lives around? A society gathering, our wedding? What about what we want? Do we have a say in any of this or is Erica absolutely right?"

He whirled to face her; there was no disguising his anger. "Christie, I need to know right now, before we go any further here. This isn't my world, it never will be. Is it yours?"


	20. Chapter 20

1**Before There Was Darkness **

**Part Twenty**

She flinched as though he'd taken his hand and struck her. The depth of her hurt was immediately evident, in the sudden glaze of her eyes, the tremble of her chin, her hand dropping from his shoulder to rest in defeat at her side. She lowered her head and sighed, wrapping her arms tightly across her body, as if to shield herself from the potential of any further pain.

"Jimmy," she said softly, the unmistakable threat of tears in her voice, "I love you, you know I do. But are you asking me to choose, one for the other?"

"Yeah," he responded with a nonchalant shrug of the chin, "in a way, I guess I am."

"I can't do that. I can't choose you over my family or vice versa. And honestly, I don't understand why we can't have both."

"Because I can't keep doing this!" Anger boiled to the surface, sharpening his words. "I guess I'm just not…what was it Mrs. Cromwell labeled it, "blue blood" enough for any of it or any of them. Christie, I stood in that bar today and listened to two women carry on a conversation about some gardener who murdered their rose bushes, as if it that was some huge tragedy they would never recover from. You can't murder a rose bush for Christ sake! If the damn thing dies, it can be replaced, a thousand times over with the money these people have… God, even announcing our engagement, your father couldn't just say congratulations. He had to stand up there in front of his friends and make it sound like you were settling for something less than you deserved."

"Oh, Jimmy, I don't think that's what he meant."

"Maybe not," he said, indignantly, "but that's basically what he said and I'm sure that's what everyone in that room thinks too. You look at me and tell me it's not true."

"I can't…just like I can't choose between you and them. Having one without the other is like giving up a piece of myself. And if you love me, really love me, then you have to take all of me, who I was before and who I am now. And that includes family, Jimmy. It's a package deal."

Strolling to the edge of the deck, he planted his elbows on the wide railing and rested his chin wearily in his hands. Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes and shook his head.

"I tried, Christie, I tried to tell you that our worlds are just too different, we're too far apart. But you didn't want to hear me."

Her hand was on his shoulder again, the soothing tone back in her voice. "I know, Jimmy, but…"

He turned to face her. "Well, sometimes, Christie, love just isn't enough." Kissing her softly on the cheek, he strolled across the deck and disappeared through the doors, leaving her standing in the chill of the late afternoon, his words, like his footsteps, an echo in the wind.

* * *

"I'll have a Heineken, please." Jim took a seat at the vacant bar and reached up to loosen the knot in his tie and undo the top button of his shirt, freeing himself from the choke hold around his throat. Absently twisting the cold bottle between his hands, the contemplation of what had just transpired playing out in his head, he didn't hear her approach. 

"Hey, is this seat taken?"

She'd startled him. "What? Sorry, no…please sit," he said, pulling the barstool out for her. "Would you like a drink?"

"I'll have the same thing you're having," she responded, taking a seat and crossing her long legs.

He raised the bottle to the bartender. "Another here, please? Do you want a glass?"

"No, thanks, I'll drink it like the big boys do."

A fleeting smile crossed his face, the brooding silence settling back again, seemingly without pause.

Laying a hand over his, she gently squeezed his fingers. "Jim, can I say something, here?"

Shrugging his shoulders, a suggestion of indifference in his tone, he said, "I think I've heard it all, but if you think you've got some new angle to add, let's hear it."

"Look at me, please." Her hand found his chin and she turned his head to face her. "I'm not even going to begin to profess knowing anything about you or what your story might be. But, it's obvious to me that you have absolutely no idea what to think of any of this. Truth of the matter is, though, I'm not sure any of us really do. I know I don't and I've been exposed to it my entire life." A hint of sadness crept into her smile. "Maybe that's why I've spent so much time trying to find myself in all of this, not just as Stewart Sullivan's daughter, but to figure out where it is that I fit in. Believe me," she said knowingly, "we all do, Jim. If you think growing up like we did made it any easier, I've got news for you. It doesn't seem to matter where we start, here or there, it's never an easy road to acceptance. God knows I've lost my way on it so many times."

Lowering his gaze from her, attempting to close the door she had so deftly opened, he said, "Look, Erica, it's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do here. I do really…."

"That's good, and if that's the case, then hear me out, please?"

"Alright, alright…you've got the floor," he said reluctantly.

"I love my sister, Jim, and what that means is that it doesn't really matter how well I know you, or how much I know about you, I already care about you because she does. I just don't want to see either one of you make a rash decision that you might regret somewhere down the road."

"So you've talked to her?" She nodded. "Then you should know that it may already be too late for that," he said, the image of Christie's wounded expression filling his head.

They raised their bottles in unison, both taking a long swig. She put hers down first and swung around so she was facing him.

"Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Shoot…" he responded, absently picking at a loose corner of the label.

"What do you see when you look at my mother and father?"

Casting a questioning glance in her direction, he frowned and shook his head. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Come on. You've spent some time with them. Is there something, anything about them that stands out to you?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"I just want an honest answer, Jim. And don't give me that look; I'm not going to jump down your throat. I've known them a lot longer than you so believe me, there is nothing you can possibly say that I haven't already noticed."

"Alright, you asked," he said, cautious hesitation in his voice. "Except for this, today I mean, I see two people living very separate lives…"

She nodded. "Very astute read, Jim. Is that the detective in you or does that ability just come naturally to you?"

He had to laugh. "No, not really…just an observation."

"Truth is, Stu and Lily probably should have divorced years ago. But they didn't and for all the wrong reasons. The price of embarrassment was too high for either of them, to say nothing of the fact that it would have sullied that great Sullivan name." She shrugged her shoulders. "So, except for the social occasions, things like this, they are very rarely together. Dad has his library and when he's not there, he's here or out on the boat. And Mom has her charitable causes, her bridge group and her studio. They might eat at the same table, but that's pretty much it."

He glanced over at her, a rueful smile etched on his face. "And I assumeyou must have a point to all of this?"

"My point is that no matter how much you think you know about someone, how much you think you have in common, it doesn't always work out the way you think it's going to. I mean, look at them, Jim. They were born in the same social circles and they haven't been able to figure out a way to make it last. They tolerate each other, but I think any love they may have had died a long time ago. And worse than that, they've made absolutely no effort to keep it going. Christie was raised with that, we both were, spending time with one or the other, but never the two of them together. And because of that, she has a very strong vision of what her marriage is going to be….that's not it."

He nodded. "That's not what I want, either. I didn't grow up with a glowing example of how it should be; only what I never wanted it to be."

"So, what's holding you back, Jim?"

"I guess I am...I don't know," he said, frustration marking his words. "It just seems that whenever we reach what I think is a comfort zone, and I'm finally starting to believe that we can make it, really make it work, something happens and I'm just not sure anymore. God, Erica, I'm so tired of fighting an uphill battle."

She laid an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "So don't fight, Jim. Talk. Let Christie know how you're feeling. She'll listen. I know she will, because she loves you. I didn't know it was possible to feel for someone the way she does for you. And whether you believe it now or not, sometimes love is enough….if you let it be."

Raising her bottle, she drained it and set it back down on the bar. "Hey, bartender. Put both of those on my Daddy's tab, please." Grinning, she said, "If my Dad is going to drive you to drink, he's also going to pay for it." She started toward the steps to the main foyer, the familiar sound of her high heels clicking across the polished marble floor. Reaching the top step, she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. "Oh, and Jim, just in case you're interested, last time I saw Christie, she was out on the deck. I think you can still find her there."

"Hey, Erica…." he called after her.

She turned.

"Thanks..."

* * *

He found her where Erica said she would be, a forlorn, solitary figure at the corner of the deck, her coat draped across her shoulders warding off the damp chill that had settled over the coast. He didn't need to see her face to know how deeply he had hurt her. It was there, in her posture, the bow of her head, the sway of her back and shoulders. He knew, without seeing, what would be reflected in her eyes. 

"Hey," he said quietly, wrapping his arms around her, burying his cheek against her hair.

She pulled away and turned to him, the pain he had anticipated masking her beautiful face. "Do you want this back?" she asked, tugging the ring from her finger and holding it out to him. A single tear slid down her cheek; she reached up to briskly brush it away.

"No, that's not what I want, Christie" he said softly. "I want it back where it belongs." Taking it from her, he slid it down her slender finger. "Please tell me it's not too late."

She gazed up at him, the tears gathering in hereyes threatening to fall. She started to say something, her voice broke and along with it, any resolve she may have had to hold herself together. Pulling her to him, her sobs buried against his shoulder, he wrapped a protective arm around her, fighting to control the fragility of his own emotions. "God, Christie," he whispered, "I am so sorry. You didn't deserve that."

When she was finally able, she lifted her head and looked up at him. "Jimmy, I love you, with all my heart. But if you are saying that you still want this, you still want me, I can't choose. You have to know that."

Caressing her face in his hands, he leaned down to kiss her and wipe the remaining tears from her eyes. "I'm not asking you to. I never should have asked you to."

"What then, Jimmy?" her eyes searched his face, looking for his answer.

A rueful smile crossed his lips. "I'll take the package, Christie. But, we have to be allowed to live our own lives, to do things our way, without interference. I can't ask you to change who you are. These people are your friends, your family and this is your home…."

She rested her head against his chest, her hand reaching for him, her fingers entwining with his. "But, it's not yours," she said quietly. "Are you going to be okay with that?"

"Yeah, I am, and I am going to marry you, Christine Sullivan," he hesitated. "...but I think I need to establish some ground rules first."

"Do we get to talk about this?" she asked.

"No, there's really nothing to talk about. I want you to understand that there are certain things I am not willing to do."

"Such as…." she said firmly, pulling away again.

"Such as…discovering that I might have a hidden taste for cigars or brandy, or that I might actually harbor some talent for the game of golf." He looked at her and grinned, "Tennis, maybe, but that's about as country club as I am willing to get."

She returned his smile and a little ray of light returned to her eyes. "Fair enough and while we're in the throes of being so open here, is there anything else you'd like to get off your chest?"

"No, that's it for now. I'm still not sure what to make of the rest of it. But," he said lightly, "it's not like I'm going in alone. I mean I've got you and Erica watching my back, right?"

"Um…." she murmured, wrapping her arms around him and settling her head back down on his chest. "Erica can watch your back. I prefer the view right where I am."


	21. Chapter 21

1She wasn't sure of the time; the house was quiet, the silence punctuated by the occasional rustle of the wind in the trees. Moonlight permeated the darkness, flooding through the double French doors, bathing the blue room in its shimmer. Jim's slow steady breathing confirmed that he was lost in a deep sleep. Although he had denied that the stress of the afternoon had taken any toll on him, his eyes had easily belied his exhaustion. She'd seen him tired before, at the end of a long day or trying to piece together a particularly tough case, but never like this; he fell into bed and was asleep before she could crawl in beside him.

Wide awake, with sleep a forgotten notion, she rolled on her side, propped herself up on one elbow, and watched him, drawn to those things she loved about him, loved about his face; the sandy blond hair with a certain mind of its own, the long dense lashes that framed his lively blue eyes, the strong, square jaw line, the shape of his mouth, the fullness of his lower lip, even the little crook in the bridge of his nose, a souvenir from his days in the ring. She felt herself smile at the thought of all the mornings yet to come, a lifetime of mornings when she would awaken like this and find him beside her. Any last tinge of anger harbored from the earlier events was, in this moment of serenity, eclipsed by the complete contentment in her heart.

She disrobed quietly, and inched closer to him, raising the heavy brocade comforter and sliding her hand under. He stirred against her.

A low moan escaped his throat and his eyes fluttered open. "Christie, what are you doing?" he murmured, his voice hoarse with sleep.

"Shhhhhhhh!" she laid a finger against his lips. "Don't say anything, Jimmy." Nestling her body tightly to him, her mouth found his and he responded to her instinctively, his senses immediately roused to the spark of her touch.

That touch seemed somehow different this time; she allowed her hands to linger, exploring intimately, unhurried and deliberate, like she had never touched him before. Her fingers danced on his skin, slid along the brawny build of his arms, caressed the strength of his shoulders and chest, lingered in the little hollow at the base of his throat before trailing lightly across his abdomen. She heard his breath catch as she pulled the hem of his T-shirt from the cinched waist of his sweats and in one swift motion, lifted it over his head. Drawing the cord at his middle, she loosened the pants, and tugged them down, relieving him of their constraint.

His breath was hot and brisk in her ear. Wrapping her in his arms, he lifted her to straddle him. She caught his hands in hers and pushed his arms over his head, pinning them to the bed. Leaning forward with the soft waves of her hair brushing against him, she teased his heightened nerves with her tongue, until her mouth pressed against his, hungry and possessive. He untangled his fingers from hers and moved eagerly across her body, finding those places that quivered to his touch.

"Jimmy," her voice was barely a whisper, his name caught in a gasp that escaped as he lowered her to him, shuddering as he filled her.

They moved as one, rising up and ebbing down again, gazes locked together. She watched the subtle changes in his expression, the indolent pleasure in his eyes gradually supplanted by the intensity of his growing want. His breath came harder, his heart raced under her, and his fingers, once gently interlaced with hers, gripped a little tighter. With one final pitch, they peaked, trembling in the turbulence of that swell and in the ensuing tranquility, basked in its afterglow.

Framing her face in his hands, he met her in a gentle kiss, tender and loving, and she knew, more so than she had before, that she was his, would always be his. Were there any reemerging doubts, they were quickly dispelled by the simple knowledge that what she had found with him was right and real. Nothing, not the pain of his past, the complications of the present, the events of this day or any other day, could possibly tear them apart.

He drew her to him, she curled into his embrace and sighed deeply. "I love you, Jimmy," she whispered. "I will always love you."

His arms tightened around her possessively, and with the first light of dawn fracturing the fragile hold of the night, they slept again.

When she woke to the sunlight streaming through the windows, she found herself alone, the sheets and comforter neatly pulled up on Jim's side of the bed.

She sat and stretched trying to discard the lingering remnants of sleep. "Jimmy?" she called, expecting to hear him answer from the bathroom. There was no response. Slipping her arms into her robe, she pulled the sash tightly around her waist and headed downstairs.

Stewart Sullivan leaned around the counter, an open pouch of coffee in his hand, and planted a kiss on Christie's forehead. "Good morning, Kitten. Did you sleep well?"

"Morning, Daddy. I did." She peered over his shoulder to the breakfast room; the table was empty. "I thought Jimmy might be here. Have you seen him?"

"I did, about thirty minutes ago or so," he said, depositing the contents of the pouch into the basket and flipping the switch on the coffee maker, "but I haven't seen him since. I asked him again if he'd join us for golf this afternoon but he turned me down flat."

"I'm afraid Jim's just not a golfer, Daddy, and I don't think you'll ever convince him it's something he might want to do. But it was nice of you to offer."

"He seemed a little quiet this morning, sweetie. Is everything okay?"

"As far as I know, but I haven't talked to him yet. He was gone when I woke up." She hesitated. "Yesterday was hard on him, Daddy, and to tell you the truth, you didn't make it any easier." To his puzzled expression she added, "I know you probably didn't mean anything by it, but what you said just seemed to rub him the wrong way."

"What I said? What did I say?"

"Daddy," she said, softly, "Come on. In a room full of total strangers to Jim,you stood to toast us, and rather than just welcoming him to the family, you made it sound like we were settling for something less than you thought we should; not just me, but you and Mom too."

"I didn't mean it that way," he said, shaking his head, "I'm sorry."

"Maybe you didn't, but I can certainly see how Jim could have interpreted it that way. And I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

"Alright, I will when I see him." He paused briefly. "Look, Kitten, I'm not saying he's not a fine young man. From the little exposure we've had so far this weekend, it's obvious to your mother and me that he has a good head on his shoulders. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little disappointed. I guess I just always had it in the back of my mind you would stay a little closer to home, marry a little closer to home."

She laid a hand on her father's shoulder. "Well, it didn't work out that way. But he was worth waiting for and I love him, Daddy. So, I'm asking you to give him a fair shake please? Stop with all the little innuendos. He'll be more comfortable and I think you'll find that he might open up a little more if you do. When he does, you'll see that he really is quite a remarkable person."

"I don't know enough about him yet to stand here and judge him. It just seems to me, for all the obvious reasons, you're starting your life together on some pretty shaky ground. I think it's important that you have a little something in common and I just don't see it, Christie. You can't build on something if there's nothing there to support it."

"And that's where I think you're wrong, Daddy. We've worked through so many things already and I know we're both stronger for it. I don't mean you any disrespect," she said, softly, "but look at you and Mom. You had all the common ground in the world and that wasn't enough to sustain you."

He nodded, a tinge of regret dimming his smile. "You're right about that, dear. It's not that I don't love your mother, I always have but," he sighed, "somewhere along the way, we just seemed to go in two different directions. Look, I'm probably the last person who should be giving you any advice in that department but I just want to see my little girl happy."

"And I will be, Daddy," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "He makes me happy."

"Well, then," he said reaching into the cupboard and pulling out two mugs, "when you're ready, I guess we have that wedding to plan. Coffee?"

She shook her head. "But keep it warm, okay? Right now, I want to go find Jimmy."

She found him on the beach, reclining in the unusual warmth of alate November morning, apparently unaware that the small waves boiling and rolling onto the sand were nipping mischievously close to his feet. One knee was drawn to his chin, one arm wrapped around his folded leg. So deeply absorbed in contemplation was he that her arrival went unnoticed.

"Hey," she said, brightly. "I thought you might be here."

"Hey," he turned and smiled, raising one hand to shield his eyes against the sun. "I woke up early and thought I would go for a run."

She plopped down beside him. "You should have woken me up. I would have come with you."

Laughing, he said, "No, I thought after that middle of the night workout, I better let you sleep." He leaned over to plant a good morning kiss on her cheek. "What was that all about anyway?"

She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not sure, really. I didn't plan it, if that's what you mean. I was just laying there, watching you sleep, I was thinking about you, about us, and you know, one thing led to another. It was alright wasn't it?"

"Yeah, that was nice," he said, lacing his fingers through hers. "Thinking about us, huh? What were you thinking?"

"That yesterday was hard on you, and that we certainly didn't do much to make it any easier."

"Yeah, well, I made it unnecessarily hard on you too," he said, sheepishly. "And I'm sorry for that. Maybe I need to relax a little, you know, try to let things bounce off me a little more."

He stood and held his hand out to her. "Hey, let's walk. I saw your Dad this morning. I'm afraid it was a little awkward."

"Yeah, he told me. " She tucked her hand in his. "Do you think you and Daddy will ever find a place where you might be comfortable with each other?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. We seem to have one very important thing in common. Hopefully we'll find others. And if we don't, that will just have to be enough, " he said, squeezing her hand.

"I talked to him, Jimmy, and I think he's going to try to make a real effort where you're concerned. The last thing he said to me was that we had a wedding to plan." His hesitation was immediate; she felt him stiffen. "I think that means acceptance, Jimmy, that's all. You and I need to talk about it first."

He let a deep sigh escape and relief filled his voice. "I am so glad to hear you say that. Christie, I really meant what I said yesterday. We have to be allowed to make our own decisions, okay? No interference."

"Agreed, no interference, Jimmy. And despite what you might think, I don't want a big wedding. I never have, although I think I'll probably take some major grief for that. Daddy can have his society wedding when Erica and Jake announce their engagement."

He raised one eyebrow skeptically. "You think you'll really see that day?"

She nodded. "They've been on and off again so often I've actually lost count. But they always wind up right back where they started, with each other. And, if you haven't noticed already, she hasn't been around much this weekend. I do know where she has been. I think it's just a matter of time."

"Alright, so if they're going to headline the society pages, where does that leave us? If we don't get married here, where?"

"Jimmy," she said, hesitantly, " I have a confession to make."

He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. "Oh, no, Christie, what now?"

She laughed. "Jimmy, it's not what you think. It's just….I wasn't kidding when I mentioned Tavern on the Green to Erica. I've already looked into it, and if you want to get married in the City, then I want to get married there," she said softly, fighting to keep her emotions in check."That's where I think I knew for the first time how much you were going to change my life. And now I want the fairy tale, Jimmy, I want the horse and buggy, I want the sax player, I want it all."

He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. "I love it, and I'd love that you'd do that for me, for us. When?"

"On the 14th of December, the first anniversary of our first date. It's only three weeks away, Jimmy. Do you think we can make it? Or do you think it's too soon?"

"Nope, I think it's perfect," he said, and she knew without question he thought it was. It was there, in the tenderness of his voice and the expression in his eyes. "But what about your family Christie, especially your Dad?"

"It's time for him to let me go," she responded quietly."You're my man now, Jimmy Dunbar. You always will be."


	22. Chapter 22

**Part Twenty-Two**

"You're being so quiet, Jimmy," Christie noted, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head against his shoulder. "You didn't say a word during dinner." She reached up and caressed the back of his head. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He put the last of the dinner dishes in the dishwasher and gave the door a quick flick upward with his foot. It slammed shut with a convincing thud.

"No, I'm okay…just tired I guess." Turning to face her, he attempted to achieve some measure of lightness in his tone. "So, how are you doing with that list anyway?"

"We're almost there, sweetie," she responded, brightly. "But we would be that much closer if you could just take a few minutes to do the things you need to do. Like go and get fitted for your tux, preferably while they still have some available."

"Christie…." His arms dropped resignedly at his side; he didn't bother finishing the thought. Justification would take far more energy than he had at that moment.

"Come on, Jimmy, it won't take you very long," she pleaded. "The rest of it, I can handle on my own, but I can't do that for you."

A forced smile found its way to his face. "Alright, alright," he said, "I'll try to swing by tomorrow….promise." He brushed a light kiss across her cheek. "But now," he said, untangling himself from her embrace, "if you don't mind, I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"

"No, not just yet. I think I'll read for a little while. Hey, Jimmy," she called after him. "Don't try, okay? Just do it?"

Several times since their arrival home from the Hamptons, he found himself questioning what it was that had possessed him to believe pulling a wedding together in less than three weeks was even remotely possible under the best of circumstances. Or why, in retrospect, he had agreed without hesitation when Christie had suggested December 14th, except for the strong sentimental ties to their first date and the knowledge that it would be the wedding they wanted, the one Stuart didn't. There was a certain measure of satisfaction in that.

He quickly realized there was much more to it than he had anticipated. Granted, the wedding was going to be a small affair but that did not appear to diminish the volume of arrangements still necessary to pull it off. While Christie had assumed much of the planning, appointments littered his calendar, not the least of which was getting fitted for that tux. He'd thought about that one every morning, on his way to work, and again on the long ride home. It, like a lot of things, wasn't even a fleeting thought during the day.

As the obligations to make their special day a reality began to mount, he found himself secretly hoping that December would follow the pattern of years past where the number of new cases dwindled significantly under the spell of the approaching holiday season's good will. And for the first several days of the month, it appeared he would enjoy the anticipated respite needed to participate in and keep all of those appointments. But when the high-pitched beep of his pager wrenched him out of a deep sleep and from a warm bed, it served to ensure that while Christie would be occupied with the final details of the wedding, he would be occupied piecing together the end of another life.

0000000000

"Danny." Jim drew the collar of his coat a little higher on his neck, warding off the chill of what was shaping up to be a very cold December day, and acknowledged his young partner with a nod.

"Cold enough for you Dunbar?" Dan Bellamy blew on the tips of his fingers before shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

"Nah, this is nothing," Jim responded, his words frosty against the bitter air. "You know, it's not technically even winter yet."

"Could have fooled me. Sweet Mother Mary," he said, stomping his feet against the frozen ground, "I'm hoping that transfer to the sunshine state comes through sooner rather than later. No offense, New York, but I would much rather be doing this where it's warm all the time."

"What," Jim said, a frown creasing his brow, "and give up all of this?" Although the bleakness of the predawn sky lent a cold appearance to the stone facades of the impressive skyline, he still found the city beguiling. He shook his head. "Nope, you couldn't pay me to leave."

"Yeah, well I guess that's where we're different, Dunbar."

Jim smiled, "That's definitely one way, Danny boy. So, what have we got?"

"Looks like a jumper." The drone of the rescue boat's engine coming to life echoed through the silence. "Guess that mean's they're finally bringing her to shore."

"Her? Are we sure?"

"Yeah."

"Hooker?"

"Can't be sure about that," Dan responded with a shrug. "It would make sense, though, seeing as how she went over around 3:00 in the morning."

Glancing up at the infrastructure of the Brooklyn Bridge, towering above, he shuddered. That really was a hell of a way to go. "Anybody see anything?"

"Maybe, the homeless guy over there. Told them he thought he heard a scream and then she hit the water."  
Jim turned toward the bridge footing, to the figure huddled against it, a thin grey blanket his only barrier against the cold night. "Have you talked to him?" he asked, nodding in his direction.

"Not yet."

"Well, what are we waiting for? Let's start there."

A few questions asked, a few vague answers, and it was apparent that the old man had enriched them with everything he had seen and heard. From what he described, there was absolutely no reason to believe this was anything more than a painful end to a desperate life.

"I'll go call it in," Jim said, heading back to the car for the two-way. He nodded his head in the direction of the river. "They're coming in."

Once the boat was securely tethered to the dock, the body was lifted onto a waiting gurney and quickly concealed under a plain white sheet. Danny crouched beside it and lifted one corner. "Caucasian female," he called out. "I'd say early to mid 30's. No obvious signs of foul play."

Jim shoved the two-way into his pocket and made his way back to his partner.

"There's no way this is a hooker, Dunbar."

"Why? What makes you say that?"

"Take a look for yourself," he said, pulling the sheet back once again to reveal the lifeless body under its protective veil. "This is a classy woman."

Turning his gaze from his partner to the victim, Jim heard an audible gasp, not recognizing right away that the sound had emanated from within. He felt his breath come quicker and shallower, the tremble started in his hands and radiated from there, bile rose abruptly to burn at the back of his throat.

"Oh, Jesus Christ ..." he managed, recoiling from the gurney. He struggled to repress a sudden, strong wave of nausea.

"Dunbar!" Dan threw himself to his feet and reached out to grab his partner's arm. "Do you know her?"

000000000

Hunched behind the steering wheel, he stared blankly out the windshield, car keys dangling from fingers that refused to move. His body, like his mind, was still in a state of shock, numbed by the realization that Alex D'Ambrosia was dead.

_God, had it really been just a couple of months ago that he'd seen her, so full of life and laughter?_

The lyrical sound of that laughter reached him long before he saw her, dazzling as always, the companion glass of red wine in one hand, the other animatedly emphasizing whatever story it was she was telling to a captivated audience. There was no denying the draw of her vibrant personality or her infectious zest for a good time and she definitely knew how to have one. She caught sight of him and smiled warmly.

"Well," she said, "if I didn't know any better, I'd swear I'd just seen an apparition. Could this be the Ghost of Dunbar past?"

"No," he answered with a shake of his head. "No ghost."

Wrapping him in a friendly embrace, she crooned, "You look terrific for someone who's been in hiding, Jimmy."

"You're looking good too, Alex," he responded, disengaging himself from her arms.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Yeah, that would be great, the usual, please." He laid his coat across the back of the vacant barstool and loosened his tie. "And I haven't been hiding, Alex, just out of commission."

"I'm teasing, Jimmy," she replied, handing him a cold brew. Politely excusing herself from her circle of colleagues, she turned her attention to him. "I guess I thought I'd hear from you again, you know? I've missed you." She planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "So, what have you been up to anyway, aside from the obvious, I mean. I see your name every once in a while in a case folder that crosses my desk."

He drew his chin down in a shrug. "You know, same ole, same ole. You?"

"Still working it, Jimmy, still working it. I haven't grown tired of it yet."

"I never thought you would, Alex," he said with admiration. "I know what it means to really like what you do."

She smiled broadly. "And I do. I'm not sure this is what I had in mind when I passed the bar, but Jimmy, it's not about the money anymore; it's about making a difference. As long as I feel like that, I'm good."

"No doubt," he countered with a clink of the bottle against her glass, "and you always were, Alex. That you were."

Batting her heavy eye-lashes, she replied in her best Mae West, "Why, James Dunbar, are we still talking about my abilities as a lawyer here?"  
He had never intended for anything more to happen between them, but with the alcohol flowing as easily as the conversation, aided and abetted by her ample, natural charms, he found himself increasingly drawn to her, just as he had on many occasions in what was now another lifetime ago. She had never been shy about hinting that she would like something more from him. He wasn't close to ready to make that kind of commitment and she wasn't close to being someone he could picture making the commitment to.

But, with Christie away on another one of her elongated business trips to the West Coast, all sense of responsibility and commitment seemed to desert him at the same time. He found it increasingly difficult to turn away from her deep brown doe eyes, or to ignore the pleading in her voice, _just once more, please, Jimmy, for old time sake._ He had finally conceded, convincing himself that he wasn't really doing anything wrong; hell, he and Christie weren't married yet, they weren't even engaged.

Stumbling through the door shortly after midnight, he forced himself under a long, hot shower. It cleared the alcohol induced fog in his head but it did nothing to cleanse his soul. He couldn't wash away the guilt. He'd never said a word to anyone about that night or about her, and he never saw her again.

Now she was dead. How in the hell had Alexandra's life ended so abruptly in the East River at 3:00 in the morning?

0000000000

He opened the apartment door slowly and stepped inside, shivering against the sudden blast of heat that greeted him. Letting the keys drop on the table, he shrugged his coat off, hanging it absently on a vacant arm of the coat tree in the front hall. Drawing a deep breath, he tried to find some measure of composure through the overwhelming numbness.

"Jimmy? Is that you?" Christie called from the kitchen.

"Yeah," he replied, hoping he had managed to inflect some normalcy in his tone.

"Hey," she met him in the doorway and drew him into her embrace. "You look like hell."

"Good to see you too," he said, wrapping his arms a little tighter around her.

"Are you hungry? Dinner's just about ready."

"No. I think I need a drink first."

"Listen, why don't I turn the heat down for a little while so you can go and grab a shower? It might make you feel better."

"Nah, just give me a few minutes, okay?" Reaching into the fridge, he grabbed a bottle and popped the cap off. Leaning against the open door, he took a long pull and swallowed slowly, letting the bitterness of the dark ale wash through him.

"So," she asked, hopefully, "did you get in today for your tux?"

He knew before he answered that his words wouldn't be enough. He shook his head. "Christie, I'm sorry….."

"Jimmy." Exasperation filled her voice. "I know you're busy, but how can you keep forgetting something that important?"

"Christie, please not now," he said firmly.

"Not now? Jimmy? Come on. I asked you yesterday, I asked you the day before that, and the day before that too. What do I need to do? Call you three times a day to make sure you remember to get it done?"

"No, that's not necessary." He sighed deeply. "It's just..."

She nodded knowingly. "You're going to tell me you got another case, right? I was here when that pager went off this morning, remember? Look," she said, softening her tone, "I know what you do is important, sweetie, but you have got to make some time to get this done."

He took another long pull from the bottle. "Christie, you don't understand. This new case...it's big."

She turned to face him, her expression, like her, voice, full of indignation. "And so is our wedding, Jimmy. This is the most important day of our lives and it's only nine days away. I would think that would count for something, that I would be at least a thought in your head at some point during the day."

"Come on, Christie," he said, reaching out to take her hand. "You know you are."

"Well," she said, with a slight shake of her head, "I'm really beginning to wonder about that, Jimmy."

"Oh, God," he said, exhaustion overtaking him. "This has been such a long day already. Can we talk about this later?"

"No, Jimmy, we can't," she answered. "I want to talk about it now...because I think there's something more going on here than just the job."

"Where the hell is that coming from? Huh? You know what I do, Christie and you know when that pager goes off, I have to go."

"Yes, Jimmy, I am well aware of what you do. But what I want to know is what really goes on when you're late or why it is that you can't seem to find a few minutes to do one thing," she said, holding up a finger for emphasis, "the one thing I asked you to get done!"  
"Why would you say something like that? Huh?" The burn of anger simmered close to the surface. He fought to keep it out of his voice. "Where the hell is that coming from?"

"Here," she said, walking determinedly to the desk. Picking up a pastel envelope, she turned and held it out to him. "This came for you today."

"And?" he asked, unsure how that one envelope could possibly be as influential as it appeared at that moment.

"And..." she said quietly. "I think I have a right to know." She laid it on the table in front of him. "Jimmy, who is Alexandra D'Ambrosia?"


	23. Chapter 23

Part Twenty-Three

There was no mistaking that it was Alex's elegant script flowing across the front of the pale mauve envelope, her address label affixed neatly in the corner. The coincidence of its arrival and her departure did not pass unnoted. Jim felt the churn in the pit of his stomach , the queasiness he had managed to suppress for the past several hours seizing control again. His legs were suddenly rubber beneath him.

"I need to sit down," he said, dropping to the couch and setting his half-empty bottle precariously close to the edge of the table. Resting his chin against his clenched hands, he caught his bottom lip between his teeth and stared blankly into space, his expression unreadable.

Christie's posture was rigid, arms folded across her chest, her eyes riveted on that envelope. "Jimmy?"

He breathed deep and exhaled slowly. "Christie, this isn't what you think," he said quietly, a finger absently stroking his lower lip. "I can explain."

"I hope so because I really need you to say something right about now."

He lifted his head and caught her gaze. "Alex is...she's someone I knew, before I knew you. We were..." The moment he uttered the word, he was struck by his use of the past tense, not so much in the context of when Alex had occupied a place in his life, but measured now by the fact that she would never do so again. "Alex D'Ambrosia was a friend, a good friend...a long time ago."

"You're not friends now?" she asked, taking a seat beside him, her tone demanding his response.

"No, we're not friends now," he replied. "She was just...she was someone I used to know."

Her eyes darted from his face to that little bit of paper, now seemingly wedged between them. "If that's true, Jimmy, don't you think her timing is just a little too neat? Why now? Why today? Why haven't you mentioned her before?"

"Hey, slow down." He lifted her chin, meeting her eyes with us. "I haven't mentioned her because I guess I didn't think it was important. I'm sure you've got skeletons in your closet too. Or have you told me about everyone that's ever been involved in your life?"

"No, of course not," she answered, "but none of them are trying to contact me a week before my wedding."

"Christie, believe me, I wasn't expecting this, not from her. As for her timing..." a wry smile turned the corners of his mouth, "I haven't heard from her in such a long time. I have no idea what this might be," he said, picking the envelope up from the table, "but..."

"But what Jimmy?"

"She's dead, Christie," he said quietly, a slight tremor in his voice. He pressed a hand to his mouth, one of those little mannerisms he often used in an attempt to suppress his surging emotions. "We found her floating in the East River this morning."

Her eyes widened. She glanced from his face to the envelope and back. "I...I don't know what to say, Jimmy."

"No," he said, with a discernable shake of his head. "I don't know either, and honestly, Christie, I don't know what or how I'm supposed to feel. I've had to wear my cop hat on this one all day long and keep it all in check. But, I knew this woman." He stared at the envelope in his hand, yesterday's date clearly postmarked across the stamp. "Whatever this is, it's not what you're thinking."

:Jimmy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply..."

"Yeah, Christie, I think you did...but I need you to know that it was over, okay? We were over long before I met you."

"I believe you, Jimmy," she said, softly, her hand finding the tense spot at the back of his neck. "But that still doesn't explain the letter."

He shrugged his shoulders. "No, it doesn't. For all I know, this is nothing more than a good-bye to her friends."

"Suicide?"

Heaving himself from the couch, he strolled to the window, pressing his forehead to the cold glass. "We're still waiting for the coroner's report."

He closed his eyes to block out the jumbled thoughts and images playing in his mind, Alex as he had last seen her alive, the frozen face staring back at him with lifeless eyes, the knowledge that he had neglected to tell Christie the whole truth about the extent of his relationship with her, the little transgression he wished had never happened and yet, even with guilt, he was now somehow glad it had, the overwhelming sense of loss he felt for someone who hadn't been part of his life for so long, the recognition that Alex had much left to do, wondering who would step forward and take up her causes, and through it all, the same nagging doubt that had plagued him since they'd pulled her from the water.

This was no suicide; the Alex he remembered would never do it. She cherished her work, as he did, defined herself by it, and believe so fully in the good of her causes that she would never leave any of it untended.

He turned to Christie. "No, this was no suicide. She wouldn't kill herself, not the Alex I knew. I'm sure of it. I don't know what she thought she needed to tell me, but whatever it is, it's here," he said, tearing the envelope open and unfolding its contents.

As he read her words, he recognized that he was making no effort to guard his reaction to them, his shock and anger playing out in his expression. He clenched and unclenched his fingers; he paced back and forth in front of the window, and when he had read the last word, he slammed an angry fist against the window ledge.

Christie jumped. "Jimmy, what is it?"

"Jesus Christ!" he hissed. Her letter tucked tightly in one hand, he picked up the phone and dialed his partner's number. "Come on, come on, answer...Yeah, it's Jim. Can you meet me?...Yes, now...where we found our DOA this morning. If you happen to get there before I do, just wait for me, okay?"

He folded the papers and slipped them back in the envelope, tucking it in his coat pocket. "Christie, I'm sorry about dinner," he said, shoving his arm into the sleeve, "But I have to go."

"Jimmy, hold on." She met him in the entry, straightened the collar of his coat and smoothed down the shoulders. "Hey, are you going to let me in?"

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Don't wait up for me, okay? This could be a really long night."

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

"Alright, Dunbar, what is so important that it couldn't wait until the morning?" Danny slid into the passenger side of the car and pulled the door shut. "It's too damn cold to be out here tonight," he said vigorously rubbing his hands together to emphasize that point.

"Did it ever occur to you that your hands wouldn't be so cold if you'd just break down and buy yourself a pair of gloves? Look, I wouldn't have called you out if I didn't think it was important. And this is important." He turned to face his partner. "Danny, Alex didn't jump. She was thrown from that bridge."

"Shit, Dunbar, you brought me all the way out here on a night like this to tell me that? Is this another one of your hunches we're playing out here?"

"No, Danny, this is not a hunch. I **_know_** she didn't kill herself," he said with certainty.

"Alright, Jim, I'll take that leap. You know that how? We haven't got anything to go on, other than the old homeless guy and we know he saw shit."

"No, that's where you're wrong, Danny. We do have something to go on." He shifted his weight so he could slide his hand into his coat pocket and retrieve the envelope. "She wrote me a letter."

"She wrote you a letter?" Danny asked, his expression, like his voice, full of skepticism.

"We were friends once, Bellamy, good friends," Jim responded firmly, handing his partner the letter. "I think she knew she could trust me."

"Trust you with what?"

"Just read it, Danny." He sat silently, watching for the reaction he knew would come.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Dunbar." The note slid out of Danny's hand and came to rest on the seat between them. Jim picked it up, folded it and slipped it back into the confines of his coat pocket.

"Christ, this is unbelievable. How the hell do you suppose she found out about any of it?"

"Come on, Danny, put two and two together. She was a public defender...she had to have access to an awful lot of street information."

"But, Jimmy, something like this is way too big for us to handle on our own. You've got to let the Lieutenant know about this."

"Yeah, I know and I will, tomorrow. I wanted you to see it first and," he hesitated knowing his partner's penchant for logic and doing things by the book, "I want to go take a look, see if there's any action over there."

"We'll be out of jurisdiction, Dunbar. You know that."

"I'm not saying we're going to do anything. I just want to have a look around."

"I don't know, Jimmy."

"Danny, it's not open for debate. You come with me, or your don't. Either way, I'm going."

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0

He wheeled the car up onto the access ramp for the Brooklyn Bridge and crossed the East River, exiting onto Prospect Avenue.

This area of Brooklyn had long been defined by an assortment of abandoned warehouses, a haven for the vagrant population, especially on a night like this. Benefiting from a recent resurgence of interest in its prime waterfront location and an influx of new money, the old warehouses were rapidly rezoned for multi-use commercial and residential complexes. The revitalization project ensured the preservation of the warehouse's exterior shells, years of soot, grime and graffiti were acid washed from their red bricks, the old multi-paned windows perfectly replicated, the big wooden doors replaced with sleek glass and metal. Even the faded white washed names of the original proprietors, dulled through the years were left for posterity sake, labels from another time in their history.

The redevelopment process was slow; while new life was breathed into one street, a few streets away, the buildings were still caught in a virtual time warp, industrial leftovers waiting for that same metamorphosis. Turning onto Gold Street, one of those streets where transition had not yet begun, Jim distanced the car from the dull glow of an overhead street lamp, drifted over to the curb and killed the engine. The world around them was silent, unmoving, except for the condensed puffs of warm air rising through the manhole covers.

"Now what?" Danny asked, already beginning to shiver.

"Now we wait," Jim replied. Slouching down in the seat, he drew his coat closer to him to fend off the advancing cold. "We can't risk running the engine, Danny boy, so do what you can to stay warm."

"Christ, Jimmy, I can't believe I let you talk me into this. On a night like this one, even the rats are smart enough to be some place warm."

Jim shook his head and shrugged. "Not the kind we're looking for."


	24. Chapter 24

**Part Twenty-Four**

Jim raised the cuff of his coat sleeve and glanced at the luminescent numbers on the face of his watch; 12:42 a.m. Cocking his head methodically from side to side, he worked to loosen the small knot forming at the base of his neck. His back and shoulders were just beginning to pronounce their displeasure at remaining inert for so long.

Four hours had passed without a solitary sign of activity in the vicinity of the building. Maybe Danny had been right after all; the impending threat of the season's first real accumulation of snow and the thermostat dipping well below the freezing mark meant the rats wouldn't be leaving the comforts of home on this night.

Intricate frost etchings splintered web-like across the windshield and glistened in fractured patterns, silvery white against the dark hood of the car. With the air inside nearing what Jim likened to that of a meat locker, his own immunity to the cold was waning; his feet were numb in his boots, his nose and ears frozen, the chill finally penetrating through the protective layers of his clothing. He flexed his gloved hands to encourage circulation back to his numbing fingertips.

Danny had drifted off to sleep shortly before midnight, the occasional snore a most welcome substitute to his persistent commentary about the falling temperatures. Still, Jim thought, it was good of him to come; he could just as easily have told Jim to screw it. Their day had ended hours ago, the next one now only a few short hours away. But, Jim had no doubt when he indicated what it was he wanted to do that he wouldn't be doing it alone, that Danny would be here with him. In the eighteen months since they'd partnered up, he had never given Jim cause to question his level of commitment to the job or his sense of loyalty to his partner.

He wasn't sure exactly where or when the turning point in Danny's confidence had occurred, only that it had, until Jim recognized that he could count on him without question; Danny would have his back no matter what. And that was such a good feeling. If that anticipated application to transfer did come through, Jim knew full well that finding a replacement for him wouldn't be an easy task.

He reached over and gave his shoulder a gentle shake. "Hey, Bellamy, wake up."

"What? What is it?" he stammered to the unexpected intrusion.

"Let's get out of here," Jim said, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "Looks like the playground's going to be quiet tonight."

"I tried to tell you, Dunbar, it's too freaking cold." Danny said, yawning widely and stretching his cramped limbs. "Hey, what time is it anyway?"

"Going on one o'clock," Jim responded with a yawn of his own. "We get out of here now we can still catch a couple of hours before that alarm goes off."

He slipped the key in the ignition and would have turned it, but Danny's arm slammed against his chest, stopping him short and knocking him back against the seat.

"Get down, Jimmy," he hissed, throwing himself sideways. "Looks like we might have some company after all."

Slumping behind the wheel, as low as his bulky frame would allow, Jim peered over the dash as a small box truck rumbled past and pulled over to the curb, maneuvering up and back until the rear of the cargo compartment was situated conveniently close to the front entrance of the old warehouse, blocking it entirely from their view.

"Stay down, Danny. Looks like we've got one more," Jim whispered, the approaching headlights of a second vehicle illuminating the car's interior. A sedan, dark and nondescript, the type driven by old men in Florida and task force officers, pulled in directly behind the truck. "Shit," he said acridly, "that's unmarked NYPD. Alex was absolutely right."

Exiting both vehicles, the occupants congregated in a circle, their seemingly intense discussion accentuated by vaporous clouds against the night's blackness. He wondered silently if Alex's demise was occupying any portion of that conversation.

"How many are there?" Danny asked from his prone position.

"Three; two from the truck, one from the car."

"Can you make anyone out, Dunbar?"

"Not from this distance. There isn't enough light to say for sure," he answered, craning forward as far as he dared, "but I'd say the build on our driver is just about right for Vince Basillio" "Then he is more than just a name to you?"

"I guess," he said, with a shrug of his chin. "I'd see him around every once in a while, talk to him, you know. We didn't have many occasions to cross paths outside of the job that often back then. And it's been a while since I've seen him."

"But you knew him?"

"Knew of him would be more like it….even so, Danny, I don't remember anything to suggest he was dirty or hearing anything to indicate he'd go that way either."

"Funny what greed does to a person, huh? And, you know what they say, Jimmy, it's always the least expected ones."

Anger bit at his words. "That son of a bitch! I can't believe how many man hours we put in clearing guns off the streets in my day with the three-four and now he's running them? He shook his head, "I'll tell you what, Danny, this is one case I shouldn't be working from so many angles. My old squad, Alex's murder….Jesus, the world just got a whole lot smaller."

"Yeah, and if they succeed in moving that stash out of there, it's going to get a whole lot bigger, Dunbar, and a lot more violent," Danny answered. "And since they've got the truck, it looks like that's exactly what they're here to do."

"No doubt," Jim said, watching as the small circle dispersed and disappeared from his line of sight. "We can try to get them on the guns first and then we'll see if we can make one of them sing. Are you with me?"

"Let's do it," Danny responded without hesitation.

* * *

Moving swiftly across the barren street, Jim kept a light step against the frozen pavement. He ducked into the sanctuary of the recessed entrance to the adjacent building and peered cautiously around the corner. Sure that his arrival had gone undetected, he advanced to the cover of the truck cab, crouching, gun drawn, beside its wide-toothed grill. With a quick wave of his hand, he motioned Danny over. 

"Stay behind me," he whispered, inching forward to take stock of their situation. The side door of the box was wide open, secured in place with a heavy latch, a wooden ramp linking the elevated cargo hold with the sidewalk below. From his angle it was apparent that the box was vacant and unguarded. "All clear."

Danny crept forward, positioning himself within ear shot of his partner. "Now what?" he whispered.

"If they intend to empty that place out tonight, they're going to have to move fast," Jim responded, keeping his voice hushed. "We wait."

"What about back-up?"

"Once we know for sure what it is we're up against. Alex has been right about everything so far but I want to make damn sure we have what we need to nail these guys before we make that call." Crawling forward, he peered around the swell of the wheel well and pulled back immediately. "We've got some movement, Danny."

The thud of wheels, bumping over the rough wooden ramp, catching against the uneven joints, signaled the transfer of the first load of merchandise to the truck. Jim listened intently to the sound of footsteps, determining exactly how many had accompanied that load. He raised two fingers in confirmation.

They crouched in that position, silence holding between them, through three loads, until they were absolutely certain that only one person was in the truck at any given time, the other returning with the empty cart for the next haul.

As the cart bumped down the ramp for a third time, Jim turned to Danny. "We need to take them down systematically, one at a time, agreed? As soon as we know our guy in the truck is alone again, I'm going in."

"Where do you want me?"

"Right here. Just stay down" he said handing him the phone. "Wait for my signal, then you call for back-up. We'll take the second one together and grab the inside guy last."

"I don't know, Jimmy… I think that's taking a mighty big risk."

"Look, Danny, it's just one guy. I can handle it, okay?"

"Okay," he said hesitantly, "you're the boss."

* * *

Jim motioned to Danny with a forward wave of his hand and moved to the side of the truck, pinning himself as tight as possible to the vehicle. Reaching the bottom of the ramp, he glanced upward at the box, noting that the occupant had his back to the door and was engaged with the cargo, sliding it across the floor and stacking it, one carton on top of the other, in rows against the far wall. Jim stayed back, until his perp had his hands full with the next carton, then gun drawn, he advanced, keeping his eyes locked on the target inside. 

He progressed up the ramp with calm, deliberate steps, confident as he moved closer to the target, that this was going to go down exactly as planned, an easy pin. He never saw what hit him; it caught him from behind, landing a heavy blow to the side of his head that sent him spiraling into the blackness and tumbling from the ramp to the hard concrete below.

Coming to, he found himself flat on his back, a small pool of congealed blood coloring the concrete floor beside him. A dull beam of light from a distant bulb sliced through the haze in his head. He struggled to roll over and with considerable effort, managed to get himself up on all fours. Bringing a hand to his head, he gingerly searched for and found a sizeable lump just above his left temple. There was a noticeable ringing in his ears, a symptom he was sure, of whatever it was that had sent him tumbling into the darkness in the first place. He shook his head and sat upright on his knees, closing his eyes against the whirling room.

"Well, well, well, Jimmy Dunbar." A strong foot connected with his torso, sending him sprawling to the floor again. Balling his body into a fetal position, he pressed his hands to his bruised ribs and fought to reclaim his breath.

"Basillio, you don't want to do this," he managed.

"Get up," he snarled, lunging for Jim. Grabbing hold of his coat collar, he forced him to his feet. "You haven't left me with a choice, Dunbar."

Jim steadied himself on weak legs and sized up his situation. From what he could make out through a left eye that was already swelling shut and a right eye not quite in focus, they were alone in the warehouse, the remainder of the booty stacked up around them, waiting to be lifted and loaded.

At any other time he would have fought back, but the man standing in front of him now had him at an obvious disadvantage.

"Why, Vince?"

"Why what? Why am I going to kill you?" he said, aiming the barrel of the gun at Jim's chest. "Why couldn't you just keep your nose out of it? Huh? You're not even in jurisdiction for Christ's sake."

"I'm a cop," he said matter of factly. "It's what I do."

"You always were too damn smart for your own good, Dunbar. But you can't tell me that given the right price, you wouldn't turn."

Jim shook his head. "No way, you're wrong." He struggled to stay upright, the pain in his head equaled only by the sharp ache in his side. Glancing up at Vincent Basillio, he smiled wryly. "Is that what happened to Alex D'Ambrosia? Huh? Was she too smart for you, Vince?"

"Alex?" He glared at Jim, his mouth drawn into a hardened line. "What does she have to do with this?"

"How the hell do you think I found you? I know names, I know dates, I know it all, Vince." Jim wasn't sure what he saw cross that face, panic or contempt.

He drew an anxious sleeve across his brow. "Well, that's what's going to cost you, Dunbar. Once we get this warehouse cleaned out, you and me are going to go take a nice ride. And then you're going to go for a little swim. You do swim, don't you, Jim?"

"**_We_** won't be going anywhere," Jim responded, smartly. "You, on the other hand..." The gun handle met squarely with his jaw, dropping him to his knees again.

"I guess you're not as smart as you used to be, Dunbar," he sneered. "What made you think you could do this alone, huh?" He buried his hand in Jim's hair and jerked his head back, forcing him to look squarely into his eyes. "You don't have a hope in hell of stopping us now."

"We'll see about that," he spit through clenched teeth. _Jesus_, he thought, _if he thinks I'm alone, Danny has to be alright_. He closed his one good eye. "We'll see."

"Basillio!" A voice boomed through the warehouse and echoed in Jim's aching head. "I don't see no one. Come on, man, we got to move."

Yanking Jim's arms violently behind his back, enough to glaze his eyes with tears, he secured them there with multiple wraps of duct tape. Planting a foot squarely into Jim's chest, he shoved him against the wall. "You be good, Dunbar and stay put. We'll finish this later."

He wasn't exactly sure how long he remained there; time enough for two additional trips to and from the truck and another meeting with the barrel of the gun. Beaten and bloody, his left eye now completely swollen shut, he leaned back against the wall and allowed himself to drift into that state between awareness and sleep, too tired and bruised to fight the urge any longer.

More awake than not, he heard it; a wail somewhere in the distance, pulling him back to full consciousness. It took a minute or two for him to realize that the sound was real, growing stronger, louder, until it was right there, just beyond the brick wall, the red and blue flash of lights strobing across the dusty window panes. Multiple gun shots ripped through the night before the silence settled again. He waited with bated breath.

"Dunbar !"

_Bellamy_. He leaned his head back against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief. "Over here."

"Jesus Christ, Jimmy, you look like hell," Bellamy said, crouching in front of his partner. "Are you hurt?" He reached behind Jim's back and sliced through the duct tape, freeing his hands.

"I'm fine." Jim managed a weak smile and winced, pain shooting through his jaw. "Did you get them?"

"Yeah. We got them, Jimmy. One dead. Basillio's in custody."

"Good... that's good." He held out a hand. "Hey, help me up."

Bellamy grasped his hand and gently pulled his partner upright. "You're going to look great on your wedding day, Jimmy," he said with a light-hearted slap on the back. "I think Christie's going to kill you."

"Better her than Basillio," he said quietly, acutely aware of what might have happened. "Hey, Danny..."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

* * *

He slid into the warmth of his bed and carefully squirmed his way over to where she lay sleeping. Burying his nose against the softness of her hair, he breathed deep. 

She stirred lightly beside him. "Jimmy?"  
"Shhhhhhhhhh. I'm home."

"Everything okay?" she asked sleepily.

"It is now," he answered quietly, drawing her closer to him and draping an arm around her waist. "I'll tell you about it in the morning."


	25. Chapter 25

**Part Twenty-Five**

"Jimmy……." her voice was a breath in his ear, her arm a nudge against his back, summoning him from a deep sleep. "Come on, Jimmy…." she whispered again, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. "Jimmy……."

"Mmm…..." He shrugged her hand away.

"Hey, sleepy head, it's five thirty-five; time to get up."

"I'm awake," he mumbled drowsily.

"Then why didn't you turn the alarm off, sweetie?"

"It didn't ring," he answered, certain he would have reacted to its obtrusive sound, just as he did every morning.

"That clock rang until it shut itself off. What's the matter with you this morning?"

"I'm fine. I guess I just didn't hear it."

"That's not like you," she said, her hand gently stroking the back of his head.

Annoyance crept into his tone. "Yeah, well it was a long night……" He shuddered inwardly at the double connotation of that statement.

"It must have been. So, how did it go?" Her fingers tangled in a patch of matted hair behind his left ear, tugging at his tender scalp. He flinched, drawing in a sharp breath.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you," she apologized, pulling her hand back. "Jimmy, what's in your hair? It's like hardened glue."

"No, it's not glue." He knew there was absolutely no point in delaying the inevitable any longer. Rolling cautiously onto his back, he stifled a groan as a sharp pain knifed through his side. "It's blood."

"Blood? Your blood?" She bolted upright and reached for the lamp on the bedside table, it's abrupt light piercing the pitch dark of the room and sending shockwaves through his head.

"Christie!" Holding a hand in front of his face, he shielded his one good eye from the unwelcome intrusion. "Turn it off... please."

He heard her breath catch and she muffled a sob. "Oh, my God, Jimmy! What happened? Who did this to you?"

"That's a long story …" he said with a faint shake of his head, "and I'm just not sure I'm ready to talk about it right now."

"Come on," she pleaded. "You can shut me out of a lot of things, but you have to let me in on this. I've got time…."

"Well, I don't," he responded emphatically. "I have to go to work." Throwing the comforter back, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately doubled over, hands pressed to his midsection.

"Jimmy," she crawled across the bed, each bounce of her knees on the mattress a jolt to his side, "you're not going anywhere except to the Doctor."

"I'm fine, baby, really," he replied, hoping she might find a measure of truth in his voice.

"It's obvious you're not or you wouldn't be in pain like that. Let me see, please." He straightened up and reluctantly allowed her to lift his shirt, exposing the ugly bruise coloring his torso. "Oh, that doesn't look good. I think you might have broken a rib."

Leaning closer, she turned his chin toward her, exploring his wounded face, her fingers lightly examining the myriad of abrasions and bruises scarring his cheek and jaw, settling finally on a deep gash slicing across his left eye brow.

"What does the other guy look like?" she asked with a forced smile.

"Last time I saw him, he was cuffed in the back of a cruiser. He didn't look any worse for the wear. Hey," he forced a smile of his own, "don't worry. I'm fine, okay?"

"Honestly, I don't know how you can say that," she said, unable to check her growing frustration. "Do you have any idea what you look like right now? Have you seen yourself in the mirror?"

"No….but I don't need to to know how bad it is," he said quietly, recollections of the hours before still uncomfortably fresh. "I was there." He stood cautiously, waited for the ache to subside and willed those thoughts from his mind. "Now, if you will excuse me," he shuffled his way to the bathroom door, "I have to get ready."

* * *

"Sweet Mother Mary!" Danny glanced up from his desk, an incomplete report in front of him. "Not like you don't already know this, but can I just say that you look like shit? You sure you should be here?"

"Of course I should be here, Bellamy," Jim barked back sharply. "Where else would I be?" He laid his coat across the back of his chair and eased himself slowly into it.

"Maybe the hospital? I tried to tell you last night to let them take you to get checked out. But no, you didn't want anything to do with that. Has anyone ever told you you're a stubborn ass, Dunbar?"

A sarcastic smirk turned the corner of Jim's mouth. "You think I reserved a place for you at the head of that line?" He shook his head, "You're as bad as Christie."

"Well, Jesus, Jim," he said, staring at his partner's almost unrecognizable features, "did it ever occur to you she might have a point?"

"Yeah, actually, Danny, it did," he admitted, with a restrained grimace, "but I wasn't about to give her that satisfaction. I think I might have a couple of cracked ribs."

"So, like I said, what the hell are you doing here?"

"That's a good question, Bellamy." Lieutenant Brian Carlson strolled into the squad room and planted himself on the corner of Danny's desk, his gaze fixed on his wounded detective. "What are you doing here, Jim? If what I just overheard is true, I suggest you sign yourself out of here now and go get it checked out."

"Nah, I'm good, Boss," Jim postured. "It's nothing."

"The hell it isn't, Dunbar! Look at you! You're lucky you've caught me on a day when my tender side is showing because you were this close," a finger and thumb held a hairs breath from each other emphasized just how close, "to getting your ass hauled into my office so I could level the ass kicking I have no doubt you deserve. Push me any further this morning with that invincible attitude of yours and I just might be inclined to give it to you anyway."

"Yes, sir," Jim replied meekly.

"I'd say, though, that you already have some pretty strong reminders of what could have happened last night," he said, the authoritative tone softening slightly. "You don't need to hear anymore from me." He strode across the floor and slipped the key into his locked office door. "Oh, and we're not done here, Jim. At some point, we're going to have to sit down and talk about these risks you seem so intent on taking."

"Yes sir."

"But maybe this will ease a little of the sting for you. Basillio sang. He confessed to all of it, including Alex D'Ambrosia's murder. He's going down for a long time. As much as it pains me to say it, good job…Now, get the hell out of here, Dunbar," he snapped, "or you'll be going in the back of a squad car!"

* * *

"_Christ, those winter boots of Basillo's packed a mighty painful wallop,"_ Jim thought, shifting his weight again, seeking some solace from the ache radiating through his rib cage. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed her number.

"Hey, baby," he said wearily, closing his eyes and leaning back in the seat. "I'm done...I sound tired? Yeah, I guess I am……nah, a couple of cracked ribs and a few stitches in my left eyebrow…." He tuned her out while she vented her obvious displeasure at the stubbornness of a man, bringing the phone back to his ear as her voice steadied and her tone calmed. "Hey, you got anything on the calendar this afternoon? Do you think maybe you can get out of there...No, nothing really; you know, I just thought it would be nice to have some time alone…"

An hour later, she was there, sliding in beside him, leaning over to give him a tender kiss on the cheek, her fingers lightly brushing the butterfly bandage covering the freshly stitched wound above his left eye. "You sure you're okay, Jimmy?"

"Yeah, let's get out of here," he signaled and wheeled the unmarked SUV out into the fray of mid-afternoon Madison Avenue. Weaving in and out of the slow moving city traffic, he seemed miles away, unaware of and unaffected by the bustle around him. Making his way up onto the bridge and over the river, he exited where he had traveled just a few short hours before.

Christie sighed deeply, penetraing the uneasy silence that seemed to hang between them. "So, where exactly are we going?" she asked as he signaled and turned into a quiet cobbled street. It was all unfamiliar to her.

"Right here," he said finally, pulling over and killing the engine. "Come on."

Christie stared in disbelief at the disarray of tangled weeds, empty booze bottles, broken glass, rusted shells of long abandoned machinery, all of it scattered across the expanse of vacant lot before her. Wrapping her coat a little tighter against the biting winter wind, she followed him. "Hey, Jimmy," she called, raising her voice above the rumble of a subway passing overhead, "What exactly is this? What are we doing here?"

"This is where we were going," he said, his gaze fixated on the towering edifices of the World Trade Center, the sterile, angled exteriors shimmering in the late-afternoon sun. Even the wretched, dark water of the East River seemed somehow warmer under the influence of its fading light.

She shot him a puzzled glance. "And just what is this?"

"I don't know really," he said. "I was thinking maybe we were home?"

"Home?" she repeated. "Where? Jimmy, are you out of your mind?"

"No, not that," he grinned as she surveyed the trash filled lot. Taking her arm, he guided her round so she was finally facing what it was he brought her to see. "That."

The old red brick warehouse building stood proudly at the corner, 7 stories of sandblasted brick, shadowed under the expanse of the Manhattan Bridge, its gleaming windows affording a magnificent view of what was no doubt still two bottles short of an eyesore. Jim was certain it wouldn't take much, just a little imagination and vision on Christie's part. If she could, if she had the ability to overlook that lot, to the potential of what it someday might be, she would see it too; just as he had. He had known it, felt it, the first time he had laid eyes on it from across the water. _How ironic,_ he thought, _that the death of a piece to my past would bring me so close to home._

"Well?" he asked. "What do you think?"

"I think it's beautiful, definitely has character," she answered, " and there's no doubt that the view from those windows must be incredible. But can we do this? Are you being serious?"

"Yeah, I think I am," he responded with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "I just thought it would be nice to start off on a fresh foot, you know, in a place of our own, not yours or mine, ours."

"Jimmy," her voice was quiet, her eyes fixed on his, "I would love to start our marriage off on a fresh foot...but to do that, it's going to take more than a new house. We really need to talk."

He bowed his head and pulled his lower lip between his teeth. "I know what you're going to ask, Christie and I'm just not sure..."

"Please, Jimmy, I need to know. Where were you last night? What happened?"

"Christie, if you are going to be a cop's wife, then you have to know that there are things I won't be able to talk about, things I can't share, not even with you."

"Yes," she answered with obvious irritation, "I do understand that, believe me. I also think I've learned by being around you for the last year, when I can and can't ask questions. And I'm not asking you to break this one down for me, Jimmy. I'm simply asking you to drop the bravado and tell me what happened. Who beat you?"

He drew in a deep sigh and winced, at once mindful of the effects of expanded lungs on his tender ribs. "It was all in her letter," he said, quietly. "Everything we needed, names, dates, addresses...she had it all, and she gave it to me. Christie, she knew they were going to kill her..." he stopped to breathe. "Shit, all I kept thinking is that she had to be so scared….. anyway, me and Danny went to check it out, things moved a little fast, and I don't know….maybe I was too close to it….I just wanted to get that son of a bitch so bad for her murder... maybe I didn't play it right."

"Who? Is it the same guy who did this to you?"

"Yeah, a dirty cop," he spat vehemently. "But he's going down….for gun running, for assault and battery on a cop and for murdering Alex."

"So you got him? I'm glad, really I am, for Alex and for you." She moved closer, wrapped her arm around him, touched his battered face. "But Jimmy, promise me you won't put yourself in danger like that again? When I saw what you looked like this morning, all I could think was how close I might have come to……"

"No more chances," he said, pulling her to him and wrapping a protective arm around her.

She gazed up at him. "I love you, I don't necessarily love what you do. Truthfully, it scares me. I don't want to be one of those wives who sits around waiting for that phone call."

"Yeah, but it's my job, Christie, it's what I do, it's who I am. You know that; you bought the package deal."

"I did, and I'm not asking you to change who you are...this is something I have to come to terms with...on my own. I'm just asking you to be careful, okay? I want you around, Jimmy Dunbar."

"I'll try, that's all I can promikse," he said, pulling her close. "So, are we okay?"

"Yeah," she replied without pause, "we're good, Jimmy."

"So now what?"

"So now," she said, looking over his shoulder at the majestic old building, firm on its foundation, somehow beginning to understand the importance of it all, she took his hand in hers. "Let's go home."


	26. Chapter 26

**The Wedding **

**Conclusion to BTWD**

Dabbing a perfectly pressed linen handkerchief to the corner of his eye, Stewart Sullivan sighed heavily. "Kitten," he said, clearing his throat of the rasp emotion had planted in his voice. "I always thought you were so beautiful. I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you, but today…wow...today you take my breath away."

His daughter, resplendent in a winter white designer gown, laid a gloved hand on her father's shoulder and gave it a delicate squeeze. "I hope those are happy tears, Daddy," she teased, "and you're not crying because you still disapprove of Jimmy."

"In my own defense," he said, a frown creasing his forehead, "I never said I disapproved of Jim…we've had so little time to get to know him. I just…I said it before…I guess I always pictured something more for my little girl."

"Daddy," she answered quietly, "I wish I could make you understand that I don't need anything more. That was your vision, it always has been. I found what I was looking for and he's right out there, waiting for me."

"I know you say that now, Christine, but I wish you would try to understand my point of view too. The truth is I'm not convinced you're cut out to be a cop's wife...it's a gritty, blue collar kind of life and whether you believe it or not, you're not a blue collar kind of girl. That's certainly not what I see in the woman standing before me now. You weren't raised that way and Jim wasn't raised with the same monetary benefits you enjoyed. Those social differences will…let's just say that this won't be easy, for either one of you. I hope you know that if things don't work out…."

"Daddy, stop," she said, indignation in her voice, "please! Believe me; I've had so much time to think about this, especially after what happened to Jimmy last week. I'm not going to lie to you; his being a cop still frightens me, but it's who he is and he loves what he does. I accepted that a long time ago. I don't question any of it because I know in my heart this is where I'm meant to be…and because he's…..because he's worth it. Now," she said, her tone softening, "I asked you to give me away on my wedding day to the man I love because you're my father and I love you dearly too. But if you keep this up, I will walk down that aisle without you. Please don't make me choose between you."

"Oh, Kitten, I'm not trying to make you choose," he said, pulling her to him and wrapping her in a fatherly hug. "It's obvious that your mind is made up and nothing your mother or I say or do will change that. I guess what it all boils down to is a matter of love and I can see it's one you seem to be very sure of. So be it." He placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before releasing her from his embrace. "I'm sorry…maybe I'm the one who's not ready for this day. I just want my baby to be happy."

"And I will be," she said without hesitation, a radiant smile finding its way to her lips. "This is my big day and I want to be able to enjoy it, Daddy, every minute of it, including these last few minutes with you. You do understand don't you that this is it? Things will never be the same again."

Stewart hesitated, an expression of contemplation on his face. "No…you're right….they won't. You'll always be my baby but you're not your Daddy's little girl anymore. Somebody else has your heart now." Snuffling back a fresh bout of sentimentality, he smiled adoringly at his daughter. "This is really it, isn't it? The day every father looks forward to and the day every father dreads. It's time to let you go," he said, holding his arm out to her.

She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow and leaned her head against his shoulder. "Yes, it is, Daddy," she said. "It's time for you to give me away."

* * *

"Damn!" Jim cursed in frustration at the reflection of his latest effort to master a simple bow. Tugging at both ends of the black tie tucked neatly under his shirt collar, he watched it unravel and prepared to give it another go. "_What can possibly be so difficult_? _I_ _solve homicides but I can't figure this out?" _

A light rap interrupted his thoughts. "Jimmy," a friendly voice called out, "you decent?"

He dropped the tie mid-knot and reached for the door. "Hey, Walter!" He greeted his friend with a genial hug. "Am I glad to see you!"

"What's up?" the older man answered with an affectionate slap on the back. "Wedding day jitters finally starting to get to you?"

"Nah," Jim sighed, clutching an end of the tie in his hand. "I just can't seem to get this damn thing to cooperate."

Walter grinned. "Oh, is that the problem? It's been a few years for me, but I think I remember how this is done," he said, taking the dangling tie in hand and tightening the loose knot.

"I hope so 'cause I'm running out of options here," Jim replied, lifting his chin in response to a nudge by the little man. He stood quietly while Walter concentrated on bringing the errant tie under control, the uncooperative nature of which Jim was sure had less to do with nerves and everything to do with impatience.

"There, that's got it," Walter said in short order, making a final adjustment. "You know, Jimmy, for someone who's about to take the big step, you seem to be pretty calm. It wasn't until I heard Dottie finally say I do that I stopped shaking."

"Yeah, I guess I am," Jim said. "Honestly, I think I was more nervous the day I asked her to marry me. Today, I'm just ready to get it done, you know?"

"I do," the older man acknowledged. "It's been a lot of years for me, but I remember it all like it was yesterday." He glanced at Jim. "What happened last week change your perspective on things a little?"

"Maybe," Jim replied with a shrug. "I know it scared the shit out of Christie…and I'm not too proud to say I had a couple of minutes there when I wondered how it was going to shake down for me. But, you know….it worked out."

"No doubt it did – this time. But, from what I'm hearing, this little incident could have gone down a whole lot worse. You might not want to hear me say this, but I'm going to say it anyhow. This time you were lucky, Jimmy. Next time you might not be."

"I know that," he said, quietly. "I did get lucky Danny played it like he did. But you know, Walter, if I had it to do all over again….I think I'd do it exactly the same way. Sometimes the end doesn't justify the means but in this case I think we did a hell of a job."

"Yeah," Walter said, nodding his head in agreement, "but not before they did a hell of a job on you first, Jimmy."

"You won't get any argument from me. I'm still feeling like it and according to my wife to be, still looking like it." He grinned, "And that is exactly why Christie decided to have the wedding pictures shot in black and white."

"All kidding aside, Jimmy, I'm just glad it's a wedding I'm here for," he said, placing a concerned hand on his shoulder. "And I'm sorry your brothers couldn't make it. You okay with that?"

"Hey, that's life, right?" Jim said lightly, the regret he had been grappling with masked by a guise of nonchalance.

"It's me you're talking to here," Walter said. "I know how important that was to you."

Shrugging his shoulders, Jim drew his chin down in an accompanying shrug. "Maybe if we had a little more time, you know, pushed this out 'til spring, maybe it would have been different. They'd be here if they could; I know that. But Walter," he said, gazing down at the man who had come to symbolize so much in his life, his mentor and his friend, "sometimes I think things work out the way they do for a reason. You wouldn't be here if they were and….it means a lot to me, you standing up with me today."

Walter nodded. "You know, Jimmy, you've grown so much since since that first time we talked. Some days it seems like it was just yesterday," he said, reminiscently, "but I've watched you become a hell of a cop, and a hell of a man. And I couldn't be prouder if you were my own son." He wrapped Jim in a powerful hug. "It's my honor to stand up with you."

Emotion choked his voice. "Walter…" he replied haltingly, "I..."

"Yeah, I know," said his friend, "me too….Dot and me." With an affectionate pat on the back, Walter released him and reached up to smooth the fall of the jacket and to readjust his tie. "All right, Big Man…"

"Hey," Jim interrupted, noting the sudden maturing of a moniker he had worn since the older man had first pinned it on him. "What happened to Kid?"

"Not today," Walter said, shaking his head. "The kid I knew is gone…the nickname has to go too." He pulled the door open and motioned Jim through. "As I was about to say, Big Man, if you're ready..."

"What are we waiting for?" Jim replied, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. "Let's roll."

* * *

The melodious sound of the string quartet flowed over the hushed voices of friends and family gathered in the elegantly appointed Park Room. Beyond its curved windowed wall, a velvet grey evening sky heightened a wonderland panorama. A fresh blanket of powdery snow shimmered under the magical spell of white fairy lights, thousands of them laced through the barren branches and wrapped snugly around the tree trunks.

Inside, fluted columns lined the bridal aisle, flaunting urns of deep red and cream roses cradled in cascading boughs of evergreen and holly. At its end, a simple table, set before the majesty of the park's magnificent backdrop, was draped in creamy winter white and simply adorned by a candelabrum nestled in a companion bouquet of red, white and green.

With the park setting at his back, Walter at his side, and the wedding guests seated before him, Jim was suddenly acutely aware of his nerves. The tie that Walter had managed to bring under control at once seemed to be limiting his ability to take a breath, his palms were sweaty, his knees shaky. He sighed and glanced over at Walter, shooting him an anxious smile.

As the first notes signaling the entrance of the bridal party lifted over the whispered conversations, the room grew silent, all eyes fixed on the grand entrance. Erica appeared at the door, stunning in a rich evergreen floor length gown, a bouquet of deep red roses clutched tightly in her hand. She floated up the aisle, acknowledging familiar faces with a discrete wave and a smile. She offered Jim a flirty wink on her way by..

Then the music dipped and swelled again with the passion of Pachabel's Canon in D, announcing Christie's arrival. Jim felt a strong surge of emotion as he caught sight of his bride for the first time, radiant on her father's arm. The seconds that should have been her journey to his side seemed to pass in slow motion, much like Stewart's progression. Jim wondered if he was making one last ploy to delay the inevitable.

Justice Maynard Scolari, an old friend of the Sullivan family who had been honored to be asked to perform the ceremony, waited for their arrival. "Who gives this woman to be married to this man?" the Justice questioned as Stewart delivered his daughter to him.

In a clear and certain voice Stewart answered, "Her mother and I do." He leaned over and kissed his daughters cheek, then turned to Jim and gripped his hand in a strong grasp. "That's my baby, Jim. Promise me you'll take care of her."

Jim nodded. "I will, Stewart."

"Good, that's good. You know I'm going to hold you to that." He placed his daughter's hand in Jims and retreated to the vacant seat beside his wife, the linen handkerchief finding its way back to his hand.

"Family and friends," the Justice announced, "we are gathered here today to witness the union of these two hearts. Christine Sullivan and James Dunbar have come here of their own free will and with a common desire to state their pledge of love for each other, and to venture forth from this day forward as husband and wife. I understand that this next announcement is no more than a mere technicality, but it's one that still must be addressed and it's one that I do occasionally get the unexpected answer to. I ask you now, if there is anyone here amongst you disbelieving in this union, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Jim waited for the only voice of dissension he had heard in the past month, but it wasn't forthcoming. The silence in the room his answer, the Justice turned his attention to the couple waiting before him. "And now, James, if it is your intent to join your heart with this woman's heart, please so state before these witnesses."

Clearing his throat, in a sure voice sure, he said, "I James Dunbar take you Christine Sullivan to be my partner in life. I will cherish our union and promise to love you more tomorrow than I do today. I will trust you, respect you, honor you, protect you, laugh with you, cry with you, live with you and die with you. I give you my hand, my heart, and my solemn promise to take you with me on this journey regardless of the obstacles life may put in our way…..if you'll come," he said, slipping an eternity band on her ring finger.

"And now, Christine, if it is your intent to join your heart with this man's heart, please so state that intention here before these witnesses."

Taking Jim's hands in hers, eyes fixated on his, and in a voice equally clear and confident, she said, "I, Christine Sullivan, take you, James Dunbar, to be my partner, loving what I know of you today, and trusting what I do not yet know. I eagerly await all of our tomorrows, to wake beside you each morning, to grow old with you, to know the man you will become, falling in love with you a little more each day. I promise to love and cherish you, whatever life may bring us and where ever life may take us." She slid a simple platinum band on his finger.

Jim swallowed hard, fighting the lump that had risen to sit at the back of his throat, and reached over to wipe a solitary tear drifting slowly down her cheek. A tender smile turned at the corners of his mouth.

With her hand tucked safely in his hand, her eyes captured by the adoration in his eyes, he affirmed his intention in unison with her. "I will."

"Then by the power vested in my by the State of New York, I pronounce you husband and wife. James Dunbar, you may now kiss your bride."

* * *

Christie snuggled her head against Jim's shoulder and drew the blanket a little closer to her chin. "I can't believe it's really over, the day every little girl dreams about her whole life and in the blink of an eyes, it's gone."

"Was it everything you thought it would be?" Jim wrapped his arm a little tighter around her shoulder and pulled her to him as the horse drawn carriage rounded a bend in the road.

"Everything and more; it was the fairytale I always wanted, Jimmy. I even got the horse and buggy. And it was so special because your mother was there and I finally had a chance to meet Walter and some of the people who mean the most to you. I'm so happy they could share this with us. Did you happen to notice that Daddy was having a harder time with this than your mom or mine?"

"You know," Jim said lightly, "I think he might actually be starting to like me."

Christie grinned. "I think you're right but you'll never hear him say it, Jimmy." Settling back into the comfort of his arms, she sighed. "So, where do we go from here, Mr. Dunbar? Any ideas?"

"Yeah, I do, Mrs. Dunbar," he said, "but we've got a whole lifetime to figure it all out. Let's just take it a day at a time and enjoy the ride."


End file.
